Crimen and Punishment (1)

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Crime and
Punishment
Fyodor Dostoevsky
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PART I
CHAPTER I
On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a
young man came out of the garret in which he
lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as
though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.
He had successfully avoided meeting his land-
lady on the staircase. His garret was under the
roof of a high, five-storied house and was more
like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who
provided him with garret, dinners, and atten-
dance, lived on the floor below, and every time
he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen,
the door of which invariably stood open. And
each time he passed, the young man had a sick,
frightened feeling, which made him scowl and
feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his
landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.
This was not because he was cowardly and
abject, quite the contrary; but for some time
past he had been in an overstrained irritable
condition, verging on hypochondria. He had
become so completely absorbed in himself, and
isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meet-
ing, not only his landlady, but anyone at all. He
was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his
position had of late ceased to weigh upon him.
He had given up attending to matters of practi-
cal importance; he had lost all desire to do so.
Nothing that any landlady could do had a real
terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs,
to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant
gossip, to pestering demands for payment,
threats and complaints, and to rack his brains
for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie—no, rather
than that, he would creep down the stairs like a
cat and slip out unseen.
This evening, however, on coming out into the
street, he became acutely aware of his fears.
"I want to attempt a thing like that and am frigh-
tened by these trifles," he thought, with an odd
smile. "Hm... yes, all is in a man's hands and he
lets it all slip from cowardice, that's an axiom. It
would be interesting to know what it is men are
most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a
new word is what they fear most.... But I am
talking too much. It's because I chatter that I do
nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I
do nothing. I've learned to chatter this last
month, lying for days together in my den think-
ing... of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going
there now? Am I capable of that? Is that seri-
ous? It is not serious at all. It's simply a fantasy
to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a
plaything."
The heat in the street was terrible: and the air-
lessness, the bustle and the plaster, scaffolding,
bricks, and dust all about him, and that special
Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are
unable to get out of town in summer—all wor-
ked painfully upon the young man's already
overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench
from the pot-houses, which are particularly
numerous in that part of the town, and the
drunken men whom he met continually, al-
though it was a working day, completed the
revolting misery of the picture. An expression
of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a mo-
ment in the young man's refined face. He was,
by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the
average in height, slim, well-built, with beauti-
ful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he
sank into deep thought, or more accurately
speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he
walked along not observing what was about
him and not caring to observe it. From time to
time, he would mutter something, from the
habit of talking to himself, to which he had just
confessed. At these moments he would become
conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a
tangle and that he was very weak; for two days
he had scarcely tasted food.
He was so badly dressed that even a man ac-
customed to shabbiness would have been
ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In
that quarter of the town, however, scarcely any
shortcoming in dress would have created sur-
prise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Mar-
ket, the number of establishments of bad char-
acter, the preponderance of the trading and
working class population crowded in these
streets and alleys in the heart of Petersburg,
types so various were to be seen in the streets
that no figure, however queer, would have
caused surprise. But there was such accumu-
lated bitterness and contempt in the young
man's heart, that, in spite of all the fastidious-
ness of youth, he minded his rags least of all in
the street. It was a different matter when he
met with acquaintances or with former fellow
students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at
any time. And yet when a drunken man who,
for some unknown reason, was being taken
somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a
heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as
he drove past: "Hey there, German hatter"
bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at
him—the young man stopped suddenly and
clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall
round hat from Zimmerman's, but completely
worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespat-
tered, brimless and bent on one side in a most
unseemly fashion. Not shame, however, but
quite another feeling akin to terror had over-
taken him.
"I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I
thought so! That's the worst of all! Why, a stu-
pid thing like this, the most trivial detail might
spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too notice-
able.... It looks absurd and that makes it notice-
able.... With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any
sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque
thing. Nobody wears such a hat, it would be
noticed a mile off, it would be remembered....
What matters is that people would remember
it, and that would give them a clue. For this
business one should be as little conspicuous as
possible.... Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why,
it's just such trifles that always ruin every-
thing...."
He had not far to go; he knew indeed how
many steps it was from the gate of his lodging
house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He
had counted them once when he had been lost
in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in
those dreams and was only tantalising himself
by their hideous but daring recklessness. Now,
a month later, he had begun to look upon them
differently, and, in spite of the monologues in
which he jeered at his own impotence and in-
decision, he had involuntarily come to regard
this "hideous" dream as an exploit to be at-
tempted, although he still did not realise this
himself. He was positively going now for a "re-
hearsal" of his project, and at every step his
excitement grew more and more violent.
With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he
went up to a huge house which on one side
looked on to the canal, and on the other into the
street. This house was let out in tiny tenements
and was inhabited by working people of all
kinds—tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of
sorts, girls picking up a living as best they
could, petty clerks, etc. There was a continual
coming and going through the two gates and in
the two courtyards of the house. Three or four
door-keepers were employed on the building.
The young man was very glad to meet none of
them, and at once slipped unnoticed through
the door on the right, and up the staircase. It
was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he
was familiar with it already, and knew his way,and he liked all these surroundings: in such
darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were
not to be dreaded.
"If I am so scared now, what would it be if it
somehow came to pass that I were really going
to do it?" he could not help asking himself as he
reached the fourth storey. There his progress
was barred by some porters who were engaged
in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that
the flat had been occupied by a German clerk in
the civil service, and his family. This German
was moving out then, and so the fourth floor
on this staircase would be untenanted except
by the old woman. "That's a good thing any-
way," he thought to himself, as he rang the bell
of the old woman's flat. The bell gave a faint
tinkle as though it were made of tin and not of
copper. The little flats in such houses always
have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten
the note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle
seemed to remind him of something and to
bring it clearly before him.... He started, his
nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a
little while, the door was opened a tiny crack:
the old woman eyed her visitor with evident
distrust through the crack, and nothing could
be seen but her little eyes, glittering in the
darkness. But, seeing a number of people on
the landing, she grew bolder, and opened the
door wide. The young man stepped into the
dark entry, which was partitioned off from the
tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him
in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She
was a diminutive, withered up old woman of
sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp
little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled
hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore
no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck,
which looked like a hen's leg, was knotted
some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite of the
heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a
mangy fur cape, yellow with age. The old
woman coughed and groaned at every instant.
The young man must have looked at her with a
rather peculiar expression, for a gleam of mis-
trust came into her eyes again.
"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month
ago," the young man made haste to mutter,
with a half bow, remembering that he ought to
be more polite.
"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite
well your coming here," the old woman said
distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on
his face.
"And here... I am again on the same errand,"
Raskolnikov continued, a little disconcerted
and surprised at the old woman's mistrust.
"Perhaps she is always like that though, only I
did not notice it the other time," he thought
with an uneasy feeling.
The old woman paused, as though hesitating;
then stepped on one side, and pointing to the
door of the room, she said, letting her visitor
pass in front of her:
"Step in, my good sir."
The little room into which the young man wal-
ked, with yellow paper on the walls, geraniums
and muslin curtains in the windows, was brigh-
tly lighted up at that moment by the setting
sun.
"So the sun will shine like this then too!" flashed
as it were by chance through Raskolnikov's
mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned eve-
rything in the room, trying as far as possible to
notice and remember its arrangement. But there
was nothing special in the room. The furniture,
all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a
sofa with a huge bent wooden back, an oval
table in front of the sofa, a dressing-table with a
looking-glass fixed on it between the windows,
chairs along the walls and two or three half-
penny prints in yellow frames, representing
German damsels with birds in their hands—
that was all. In the corner a light was burning
before a small ikon. Everything was very clean;
the floor and the furniture were brightly pol-
ished; everything shone.
"Lizaveta's work," thought the young man.
There was not a speck of dust to be seen in the
whole flat.
"It's in the houses of spiteful old widows that
one finds such cleanliness," Raskolnikov
thought again, and he stole a curious glance at
the cotton curtain over the door leading into
another tiny room, in which stood the old wo-
man's bed and chest of drawers and into which
he had never looked before. These two rooms
made up the whole flat.
"What do you want?" the old woman said se-
verely, coming into the room and, as before,
standing in front of him so as to look him
straight in the face.
"I've brought something to pawn here," and he
drew out of his pocket an old-fashioned flat
silver watch, on the back of which was en-
graved a globe; the chain was of steel.
"But the time is up for your last pledge. The
month was up the day before yesterday."
"I will bring you the interest for another month;
wait a little."
"But that's for me to do as I please, my good sir,
to wait or to sell your pledge at once."
"How much will you give me for the watch,
Alyona Ivanovna?"
"You come with such trifles, my good sir, it's
scarcely worth anything. I gave you two rou-
bles last time for your ring and one could buy it
quite new at a jeweler's for a rouble and a half."
"Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it
was my father's. I shall be getting some money
soon."
"A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if
you like!"
"A rouble and a half!" cried the young man.
"Please yourself"—and the old woman handed
him back the watch. The young man took it,
and was so angry that he was on the point of
going away; but checked himself at once, re-
membering that there was nowhere else he
could go, and that he had had another object
also in coming.
"Hand it over," he said roughly.
The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her
keys, and disappeared behind the curtain into
the other room. The young man, left standing
alone in the middle of the room, listened inqui-
sitively, thinking. He could hear her unlocking
the chest of drawers.
"It must be the top drawer," he reflected. "So
she carries the keys in a pocket on the right. All
in one bunch on a steel ring.... And there's one
key there, three times as big as all the others,
with deep notches; that can't be the key of the
chest of drawers... then there must be some
other chest or strong-box... that's worth know-
ing. Strong-boxes always have keys like that...
but how degrading it all is."
The old woman came back.
"Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a
month, so I must take fifteen copecks from a
rouble and a half for the month in advance. But
for the two roubles I lent you before, you owe
me now twenty copecks on the same reckoning
in advance. That makes thirty-five copecks al-
together. So I must give you a rouble and fif-
teen copecks for the watch. Here it is."
"What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!"
"Just so."
The young man did not dispute it and took the
money. He looked at the old woman, and was
in no hurry to get away, as though there was
still something he wanted to say or to do, but
he did not himself quite know what.
"I may be bringing you something else in a day
or two, Alyona Ivanovna—a valuable thing—
silver—a cigarette-box, as soon as I get it back
from a friend..." he broke off in confusion.
"Well, we will talk about it then, sir."
"Good-bye—are you always at home alone,
your sister is not here with you?" He asked her
as casually as possible as he went out into the
passage.
"What business is she of yours, my good sir?"
"Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You
are too quick.... Good-day, Alyona Ivanovna."
Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion.
This confusion became more and more intense.
As he went down the stairs, he even stopped
short, two or three times, as though suddenly
struck by some thought. When he was in the
street he cried out, "Oh, God, how loathsome it
all is! and can I, can I possibly.... No, it's non-
sense, it's rubbish!" he added resolutely. "And
how could such an atrocious thing come into
my head? What filthy things my heart is capa-ble of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loath-
some, loathsome!—and for a whole month I've
been...." But no words, no exclamations, could
express his agitation. The feeling of intense
repulsion, which had begun to oppress and
torture his heart while he was on his way to the
old woman, had by now reached such a pitch
and had taken such a definite form that he did
not know what to do with himself to escape
from his wretchedness. He walked along the
pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the
passers-by, and jostling against them, and only
came to his senses when he was in the next
street. Looking round, he noticed that he was
standing close to a tavern which was entered
by steps leading from the pavement to the ba-
sement. At that instant two drunken men came
out at the door, and abusing and supporting
one another, they mounted the steps. Without
stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the
steps at once. Till that moment he had never
been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and
was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed
for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his sud-
den weakness to the want of food. He sat down
at a sticky little table in a dark and dirty corner;
ordered some beer, and eagerly drank off the
first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his
thoughts became clear.
"All that's nonsense," he said hopefully, "and
there is nothing in it all to worry about! It's sim-
ply physical derangement. Just a glass of beer, a
piece of dry bread—and in one moment the
brain is stronger, the mind is clearer and the
will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!"
But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was
by now looking cheerful as though he were
suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he
gazed round in a friendly way at the people in
the room. But even at that moment he had a
dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind
was also not normal.
There were few people at the time in the tavern.
Besides the two drunken men he had met on
the steps, a group consisting of about five men
and a girl with a concertina had gone out at the
same time. Their departure left the room quiet
and rather empty. The persons still in the tav-
ern were a man who appeared to be an artisan,
drunk, but not extremely so, sitting before a pot
of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man
with a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat.
He was very drunk: and had dropped asleep
on the bench; every now and then, he began as
though in his sleep, cracking his fingers, with
his arms wide apart and the upper part of his
body bounding about on the bench, while he
hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to
recall some such lines as these:
"His wife a year he fondly loved His wife a—a
year he—fondly loved."
Or suddenly waking up again:
"Walking along the crowded row He met the
one he used to know."
But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent
companion looked with positive hostility and
mistrust at all these manifestations. There was
another man in the room who looked some-
what like a retired government clerk. He was
sitting apart, now and then sipping from his
pot and looking round at the company. He, too,
appeared to be in some agitation.
CHAPTER II
Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as
we said before, he avoided society of every
sort, more especially of late. But now all at once
he felt a desire to be with other people. Some-
thing new seemed to be taking place within
him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for com-
pany. He was so weary after a whole month of
concentrated wretchedness and gloomy ex-
citement that he longed to rest, if only for a
moment, in some other world, whatever it
might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the
surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the
tavern.
The master of the establishment was in another
room, but he frequently came down some steps
into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots
with red turn-over tops coming into view each
time before the rest of his person. He wore a
full coat and a horribly greasy black satin
waistcoat, with no cravat, and his whole face
seemed smeared with oil like an iron lock. At
the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and
there was another boy somewhat younger who
handed whatever was wanted. On the counter
lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried
black bread, and some fish, chopped up small,
all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close,
and so heavy with the fumes of spirits that five
minutes in such an atmosphere might well ma-
ke a man drunk.
There are chance meetings with strangers that
interest us from the first moment, before a
word is spoken. Such was the impression made
on Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little
distance from him, who looked like a retired
clerk. The young man often recalled this im-
pression afterwards, and even ascribed it to
presentiment. He looked repeatedly at the
clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was
staring persistently at him, obviously anxious
to enter into conversation. At the other persons
in the room, including the tavern-keeper, the
clerk looked as though he were used to their
company, and weary of it, showing a shade of
condescending contempt for them as persons of
station and culture inferior to his own, with
whom it would be useless for him to converse.
He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of
medium height, and stoutly built. His face,
bloated from continual drinking, was of a yel-
low, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids
out of which keen reddish eyes gleamed like
little chinks. But there was something very
strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as
though of intense feeling—perhaps there were
even thought and intelligence, but at the same
time there was a gleam of something like mad-
ness. He was wearing an old and hopelessly
ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons
missing except one, and that one he had but-
toned, evidently clinging to this last trace of
respectability. A crumpled shirt front, covered
with spots and stains, protruded from his can-
vas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard,
nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven
that his chin looked like a stiff greyish brush.
And there was something respectable and like
an official about his manner too. But he was
restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to
time let his head drop into his hands dejectedly
resting his ragged elbows on the stained and
sticky table. At last he looked straight at Ras-
kolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely:
"May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in
polite conversation? Forasmuch as, though
your exterior would not command respect, my
experience admonishes me that you are a man
of education and not accustomed to drinking. I
have always respected education when in con-
junction with genuine sentiments, and I am
besides a titular counsellor in rank. Marme-
ladov—such is my name; titular counsellor. I
make bold to inquire—have you been in the
service?"
"No, I am studying," answered the young man,
somewhat surprised at the grandiloquent style
of the speaker and also at being so directly ad-
dressed. In spite of the momentary desire he
had just been feeling for company of any sort,
on being actually spoken to he felt immediately
his habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for
any stranger who approached or attempted to
approach him.
"A student then, or formerly a student," cried
the clerk. "Just what I thought! I'm a man of
experience, immense experience, sir," and he
tapped his forehead with his fingers in self-
approval. "You've been a student or have at-
tended some learned institution!... But allow
me...." He got up, staggered, took up his jug
and glass, and sat down beside the young man,
facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but
spoke fluently and boldly, only occasionally
losing the thread of his sentences and drawling
his words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as
greedily as though he too had not spoken to a
soul for a month.
"Honoured sir," he began almost with solem-nity, "poverty is not a vice, that's a true saying.
Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue,
and that that's even truer. But beggary, hon-
oured sir, beggary is a vice. In poverty you may
still retain your innate nobility of soul, but in
beggary—never—no one. For beggary a man is
not chased out of human society with a stick,
he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it
as humiliating as possible; and quite right, too,
forasmuch as in beggary I am ready to be the
first to humiliate myself. Hence the pot-house!
Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov
gave my wife a beating, and my wife is a very
different matter from me! Do you understand?
Allow me to ask you another question out of
simple curiosity: have you ever spent a night
on a hay barge, on the Neva?"
"No, I have not happened to," answered Ras-
kolnikov. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I've just come from one and it's the fifth
night I've slept so...." He filled his glass, emp-
tied it and paused. Bits of hay were in fact clin-
ging to his clothes and sticking to his hair. It
seemed quite probable that he had not un-
dressed or washed for the last five days. His
hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat
and red, with black nails.
His conversation seemed to excite a general
though languid interest. The boys at the coun-
ter fell to sniggering. The innkeeper came down
from the upper room, apparently on purpose to
listen to the "funny fellow" and sat down at a
little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity.
Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure
here, and he had most likely acquired his weak-
ness for high-flown speeches from the habit of
frequently entering into conversation with
strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit
develops into a necessity in some drunkards,
and especially in those who are looked after
sharply and kept in order at home. Hence in
the company of other drinkers they try to jus-
tify themselves and even if possible obtain con-
sideration.
"Funny fellow!" pronounced the innkeeper.
"And why don't you work, why aren't you at
your duty, if you are in the service?"
"Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir," Mar-
meladov went on, addressing himself exclu-
sively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he
who put that question to him. "Why am I not at
my duty? Does not my heart ache to think what
a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr.
Lebeziatnikov beat my wife with his own
hands, and I lay drunk, didn't I suffer? Excuse
me, young man, has it ever happened to you...
hm... well, to petition hopelessly for a loan?"
"Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hope-
lessly?"
"Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you
know beforehand that you will get nothing by
it. You know, for instance, beforehand with
positive certainty that this man, this most repu-
table and exemplary citizen, will on no consid-
eration give you money; and indeed I ask you
why should he? For he knows of course that I
shan't pay it back. From compassion? But Mr.
Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern
ideas explained the other day that compassion
is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and
that that's what is done now in England, where
there is political economy. Why, I ask you,
should he give it to me? And yet though I know
beforehand that he won't, I set off to him and..."
"Why do you go?" put in Raskolnikov.
"Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one
can go! For every man must have somewhere to
go. Since there are times when one absolutely
must go somewhere! When my own daughter
first went out with a yellow ticket, then I had to
go... (for my daughter has a yellow passport),"
he added in parenthesis, looking with a certain
uneasiness at the young man. "No matter, sir,
no matter!" he went on hurriedly and with ap-
parent composure when both the boys at the
counter guffawed and even the innkeeper smi-
led—"No matter, I am not confounded by the
wagging of their heads; for everyone knows
everything about it already, and all that is se-
cret is made open. And I accept it all, not with
contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it!
'Behold the man!' Excuse me, young man, can
you.... No, to put it more strongly and more
distinctly; not can you but dare you, looking
upon me, assert that I am not a pig?"
The young man did not answer a word.
"Well," the orator began again stolidly and with
even increased dignity, after waiting for the
laughter in the room to subside. "Well, so be it,
I am a pig, but she is a lady! I have the sem-
blance of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my
spouse, is a person of education and an officer's
daughter. Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel,
but she is a woman of a noble heart, full of sen-
timents, refined by education. And yet... oh, if
only she felt for me! Honoured sir, honoured
sir, you know every man ought to have at least
one place where people feel for him! But Kate-
rina Ivanovna, though she is magnanimous, she
is unjust.... And yet, although I realise that
when she pulls my hair she only does it out of
pity—for I repeat without being ashamed, she
pulls my hair, young man," he declared with
redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering
again—"but, my God, if she would but once....
But no, no! It's all in vain and it's no use talk-
ing! No use talking! For more than once, my
wish did come true and more than once she has
felt for me but... such is my fate and I am a
beast by nature!"
"Rather!" assented the innkeeper yawning.
Marmeladov struck his fist resolutely on the
table.
"Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you
know, I have sold her very stockings for drink?
Not her shoes—that would be more or less in
the order of things, but her stockings, her stock-
ings I have sold for drink! Her mohair shawl I
sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her
own property, not mine; and we live in a cold
room and she caught cold this winter and has
begun coughing and spitting blood too. We
have three little children and Katerina Ivanov-
na is at work from morning till night; she is
scrubbing and cleaning and washing the chil-
dren, for she's been used to cleanliness from a
child. But her chest is weak and she has a ten-
dency to consumption and I feel it! Do you
suppose I don't feel it? And the more I drink
the more I feel it. That's why I drink too. I try to
find sympathy and feeling in drink.... I drink so
that I may suffer twice as much!" And as
though in despair he laid his head down on the
table.
"Young man," he went on, raising his head
again, "in your face I seem to read some trouble
of mind. When you came in I read it, and that
was why I addressed you at once. For in un-
folding to you the story of my life, I do not
wish to make myself a laughing-stock before
these idle listeners, who indeed know all about
it already, but I am looking for a man of feeling
and education. Know then that my wife was
educated in a high-class school for the daugh-
ters of noblemen, and on leaving she danced
the shawl dance before the governor and other
personages for which she was presented with a
gold medal and a certificate of merit. The
medal... well, the medal of course was sold—
long ago, hm... but the certificate of merit is in
her trunk still and not long ago she showed it
to our landlady. And although she is most con-
tinually on bad terms with the landlady, yet
she wanted to tell someone or other of her past
honours and of the happy days that are gone. I
don't condemn her for it, I don't blame her, for
the one thing left her is recollection of the past,
and all the rest is dust and ashes. Yes, yes, she
is a lady of spirit, proud and determined. She
scrubs the floors herself and has nothing but
black bread to eat, but won't allow herself to be
treated with disrespect. That's why she would
not overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov's rudeness to
her, and so when he gave her a beating for it,
she took to her bed more from the hurt to her
feelings than from the blows.She was a widow
when I married her, with three children, one
smaller than the other. She married her first
husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran
away with him from her father's house. She
was exceedingly fond of her husband; but he
gave way to cards, got into trouble and with
that he died. He used to beat her at the end:
and although she paid him back, of which I
have authentic documentary evidence, to this
day she speaks of him with tears and she
throws him up to me; and I am glad, I am glad
that, though only in imagination, she should
think of herself as having once been happy....
And she was left at his death with three chil-
dren in a wild and remote district where I hap-
pened to be at the time; and she was left in such
hopeless poverty that, although I have seen
many ups and downs of all sort, I don't feel
equal to describing it even. Her relations had
all thrown her off. And she was proud, too,
excessively proud.... And then, honoured sir,
and then, I, being at the time a widower, with a
daughter of fourteen left me by my first wife,
offered her my hand, for I could not bear the
sight of such suffering. You can judge the ex-
tremity of her calamities, that she, a woman of
education and culture and distinguished fam-
ily, should have consented to be my wife. But
she did! Weeping and sobbing and wringing
her hands, she married me! For she had no-
where to turn! Do you understand, sir, do you
understand what it means when you have ab-
solutely nowhere to turn? No, that you don't
understand yet.... And for a whole year, I per-
formed my duties conscientiously and faith-
fully, and did not touch this" (he tapped the jug
with his finger), "for I have feelings. But even
so, I could not please her; and then I lost my
place too, and that through no fault of mine but
through changes in the office; and then I did
touch it!... It will be a year and a half ago soon
since we found ourselves at last after many
wanderings and numerous calamities in this
magnificent capital, adorned with innumerable
monuments. Here I obtained a situation.... I
obtained it and I lost it again. Do you under-
stand? This time it was through my own fault I
lost it: for my weakness had come out.... We
have now part of a room at Amalia Fyodorovna
Lippevechsel's; and what we live upon and
what we pay our rent with, I could not say.
There are a lot of people living there besides
ourselves. Dirt and disorder, a perfect Bedlam...
hm... yes... And meanwhile my daughter by my
first wife has grown up; and what my daughter
has had to put up with from her step-mother
whilst she was growing up, I won't speak of.
For, though Katerina Ivanovna is full of gener-
ous feelings, she is a spirited lady, irritable and
short—tempered.... Yes. But it's no use going
over that! Sonia, as you may well fancy, has
had no education. I did make an effort four
years ago to give her a course of geography and
universal history, but as I was not very well up
in those subjects myself and we had no suitable
books, and what books we had... hm, anyway
we have not even those now, so all our instruc-
tion came to an end. We stopped at Cyrus of
Persia. Since she has attained years of maturity,
she has read other books of romantic tendency
and of late she had read with great interest a
book she got through Mr. Lebeziatnikov,
Lewes' Physiology—do you know it?—and
even recounted extracts from it to us: and that's
the whole of her education. And now may I
venture to address you, honoured sir, on my
own account with a private question. Do you
suppose that a respectable poor girl can earn
much by honest work? Not fifteen farthings a
day can she earn, if she is respectable and has
no special talent and that without putting her
work down for an instant! And what's more,
Ivan Ivanitch Klopstock the civil counsellor—
have you heard of him?—has not to this day
paid her for the half-dozen linen shirts she
made him and drove her roughly away, stamp-
ing and reviling her, on the pretext that the
shirt collars were not made like the pattern and
were put in askew. And there are the little ones
hungry.... And Katerina Ivanovna walking up
and down and wringing her hands, her cheeks
flushed red, as they always are in that disease:
'Here you live with us,' says she, 'you eat and
drink and are kept warm and you do nothing
to help.' And much she gets to eat and drink
when there is not a crust for the little ones for
three days! I was lying at the time... well, what
of it! I was lying drunk and I heard my Sonia
speaking (she is a gentle creature with a soft
little voice... fair hair and such a pale, thin little
face). She said: 'Katerina Ivanovna, am I really
to do a thing like that?' And Darya Frantsovna,
a woman of evil character and very well known
to the police, had two or three times tried to get
at her through the landlady. 'And why not?'
said Katerina Ivanovna with a jeer, 'you are
something mighty precious to be so careful of!'
But don't blame her, don't blame her, honoured
sir, don't blame her! She was not herself when
she spoke, but driven to distraction by her ill-
ness and the crying of the hungry children; and
it was said more to wound her than anything
else.... For that's Katerina Ivanovna's character,
and when children cry, even from hunger, she
falls to beating them at once. At six o'clock I
saw Sonia get up, put on her kerchief and her
cape, and go out of the room and about nine
o'clock she came back. She walked straight up
to Katerina Ivanovna and she laid thirty rou-
bles on the table before her in silence. She did
not utter a word, she did not even look at her,
she simply picked up our big green drap de
dames shawl (we have a shawl, made of drap de
dames), put it over her head and face and lay
down on the bed with her face to the wall; only
her little shoulders and her body kept shudder-
ing.... And I went on lying there, just as be-
fore.... And then I saw, young man, I saw
Katerina Ivanovna, in the same silence go up to
Sonia's little bed; she was on her knees all the
evening kissing Sonia's feet, and would not get
up, and then they both fell asleep in each
other's arms... together, together... yes... and I...
lay drunk."
Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice
had failed him. Then he hurriedly filled his
glass, drank, and cleared his throat.
"Since then, sir," he went on after a brief pau-
se—"Since then, owing to an unfortunate occur-
rence and through information given by evil-
intentioned persons—in all which Darya Frant-
sovna took a leading part on the pretext that
she had been treated with want of respect—
since then my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has
been forced to take a yellow ticket, and owing
to that she is unable to go on living with us. For
our landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna would not
hear of it (though she had backed up Darya
Frantsovna before) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too...
hm.... All the trouble between him and Katerina
Ivanovna was on Sonia's account. At first he
was for making up to Sonia himself and then
all of a sudden he stood on his dignity: 'how,'
said he, 'can a highly educated man like me live
in the same rooms with a girl like that?' And
Katerina Ivanovna would not let it pass, she
stood up for her... and so that's how it hap-
pened. And Sonia comes to us now, mostly
after dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and
gives her all she can.... She has a room at the
Kapernaumovs' the tailors, she lodges with
them; Kapernaumov is a lame man with a cleft
palate and all of his numerous family have cleft
palates too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate.
They all live in one room, but Sonia has her
own, partitioned off.... Hm... yes... very poor
people and all with cleft palates... yes. Then I
got up in the morning, and put on my rags,
lifted up my hands to heaven and set off to his
excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch. His excellency
Ivan Afanasyvitch, do you know him? No?
Well, then, it's a man of God you don'tknow.
He is wax... wax before the face of the Lord;
even as wax melteth!... His eyes were dim
when he heard my story. 'Marmeladov, once
already you have deceived my expectations...
I'll take you once more on my own responsibil-
ity'—that's what he said, 'remember,' he said,
'and now you can go.' I kissed the dust at his
feet—in thought only, for in reality he would
not have allowed me to do it, being a statesman
and a man of modern political and enlightened
ideas. I returned home, and when I announced
that I'd been taken back into the service and
should receive a salary, heavens, what a to-do
there was!..."
Marmeladov stopped again in violent excite-
ment. At that moment a whole party of revel-
lers already drunk came in from the street, and
the sounds of a hired concertina and the crac-
ked piping voice of a child of seven singing
"The Hamlet" were heard in the entry. The
room was filled with noise. The tavern-keeper
and the boys were busy with the new-comers.
Marmeladov paying no attention to the new
arrivals continued his story. He appeared by
now to be extremely weak, but as he became
more and more drunk, he became more and
more talkative. The recollection of his recent
success in getting the situation seemed to re-
vive him, and was positively reflected in a sort
of radiance on his face. Raskolnikov listened
attentively.
"That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes.... As soon as
Katerina Ivanovna and Sonia heard of it, mercy
on us, it was as though I stepped into the king-
dom of Heaven. It used to be: you can lie like a
beast, nothing but abuse. Now they were walk-
ing on tiptoe, hushing the children. 'Semyon
Zaharovitch is tired with his work at the office,
he is resting, shh!' They made me coffee before
I went to work and boiled cream for me! They
began to get real cream for me, do you hear
that? And how they managed to get together
the money for a decent outfit—eleven roubles,
fifty copecks, I can't guess. Boots, cotton shirt-
fronts—most magnificent, a uniform, they got
up all in splendid style, for eleven roubles and
a half. The first morning I came back from the
office I found Katerina Ivanovna had cooked
two courses for dinner—soup and salt meat
with horse radish—which we had never drea-
med of till then. She had not any dresses... none
at all, but she got herself up as though she were
going on a visit; and not that she'd anything to
do it with, she smartened herself up with noth-
ing at all, she'd done her hair nicely, put on a
clean collar of some sort, cuffs, and there she
was, quite a different person, she was younger
and better looking. Sonia, my little darling, had
only helped with money 'for the time,' she said,
'it won't do for me to come and see you too
often. After dark maybe when no one can see.'
Do you hear, do you hear? I lay down for a nap
after dinner and what do you think: though
Katerina Ivanovna had quarrelled to the last
degree with our landlady Amalia Fyodorovna
only a week before, she could not resist then
asking her in to coffee. For two hours they were
sitting, whispering together. 'Semyon Za-
harovitch is in the service again, now, and re-
ceiving a salary,' says she, 'and he went himself
to his excellency and his excellency himself
came out to him, made all the others wait and
led Semyon Zaharovitch by the hand before
everybody into his study.' Do you hear, do you
hear? 'To be sure,' says he, 'Semyon Za-
harovitch, remembering your past services,'
says he, 'and in spite of your propensity to that
foolish weakness, since you promise now and
since moreover we've got on badly without
you,' (do you hear, do you hear;) 'and so,' says
he, 'I rely now on your word as a gentleman.'
And all that, let me tell you, she has simply
made up for herself, and not simply out of
wantonness, for the sake of bragging; no, she
believes it all herself, she amuses herself with
her own fancies, upon my word she does! And
I don't blame her for it, no, I don't blame her!...
Six days ago when I brought her my first earn-
ings in full—twenty-three roubles forty copecks
altogether—she called me her poppet: 'poppet,'
said she, 'my little poppet.' And when we were
by ourselves, you understand? You would not
think me a beauty, you would not think much
of me as a husband, would you?... Well, she
pinched my cheek, 'my little poppet,' said she."
Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but sud-
denly his chin began to twitch. He controlled
himself however. The tavern, the degraded
appearance of the man, the five nights in the
hay barge, and the pot of spirits, and yet this
poignant love for his wife and children bewil-
dered his listener. Raskolnikov listened intently
but with a sick sensation. He felt vexed that he
had come here.
"Honoured sir, honoured sir," cried Marme-
ladov recovering himself—"Oh, sir, perhaps all
this seems a laughing matter to you, as it does
to others, and perhaps I am only worrying you
with the stupidity of all the trivial details of my
home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me.
For I can feel it all.... And the whole of that
heavenly day of my life and the whole of that
evening I passed in fleeting dreams of how I
would arrange it all, and how I would dress all
the children, and how I should give her rest,
and how I should rescue my own daughter
from dishonour and restore her to the bosom of
her family.... And a great deal more.... Quite
excusable, sir. Well, then, sir" (Marmeladov
suddenly gave a sort of start, raised his head
and gazed intently at his listener) "well, on the
very next day after all those dreams, that is to
say, exactly five days ago, in the evening, by a
cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I stole
from Katerina Ivanovna the key of her box,
took out what was left of my earnings, how
much it was I have forgotten, and now look at
me, all of you! It's the fifth day since I left
home, and they are looking for me there and
it's the end of my employment, and my uni-
form is lying in a tavern on the Egyptian brid-
ge. I exchanged it for the garments I have on...
and it's the end of everything!"
Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist,
clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and leaned
heavily with his elbow on the table. But a min-
ute later his face suddenly changed and with a
certain assumed slyness and affectation of bra-
vado, he glanced at Raskolnikov, laughed and
said:
"This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask
her for a pick-me-up! He-he-he!"
"You don't say she gave it to you?" cried one of
the new-comers; he shouted the words and
went off into a guffaw.
"This very quart was bought with her money,"
Marmeladov declared, addressing himself ex-
clusively to Raskolnikov. "Thirty copecks she
gave me with her own hands, her last, all she
had, as I saw.... She said nothing, she only loo-
ked at me without a word.... Not on earth, but
up yonder... they grieve over men, they weep,
but they don't blame them, they don't blame
them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when
they don't blame! Thirty copecks yes! And
maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you
think, my dear sir? For now she's got to keep
up her appearance. It costs money, that smart-
ness, that special smartness, you know? Do you
understand? And there's pomatum, too, you
see, she must have things; petticoats, starched
ones, shoes, too, real jaunty ones to show off
her foot when she has to step over a puddle. Do
you understand, sir, do you understand what
all that smartness means? And here I, her own
father, here I took thirty copecks of that money
for a drink! And I am drinking it! And I have
already drunk it! Come, who will have pity on
a man like me, eh? Are you sorry for me, sir, or
not? Tell me, sir, are you sorry or not? He-he-
he!"
He would have filled his glass, but there was
no drink left. The pot was empty.
"What are you to be pitied for?" shouted the
tavern-keeper who was again near them.
Shouts of laughter and even oaths followed.
The laughter and the oaths came fromthose
who were listening and also from those who
had heard nothing but were simply looking at
the figure of the discharged government clerk.
"To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?" Marme-
ladov suddenly declaimed, standing up with
his arm outstretched, as though he had been
only waiting for that question.
"Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! there's
nothing to pity me for! I ought to be crucified,
crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, oh
judge, crucify me but pity me! And then I will
go of myself to be crucified, for it's not merry-
making I seek but tears and tribulation!... Do
you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of
yours has been sweet to me? It was tribulation I
sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation,
and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He
will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who
has understood all men and all things, He is the
One, He too is the judge. He will come in that
day and He will ask: 'Where is the daughter
who gave herself for her cross, consumptive
step-mother and for the little children of an-
other? Where is the daughter who had pity
upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father,
undismayed by his beastliness?' And He will
say, 'Come to me! I have already forgiven thee
once.... I have forgiven thee once.... Thy sins
which are many are forgiven thee for thou hast
loved much....' And he will forgive my Sonia,
He will forgive, I know it... I felt it in my heart
when I was with her just now! And He will
judge and will forgive all, the good and the
evil, the wise and the meek.... And when He
has done with all of them, then He will sum-
mon us. 'You too come forth,' He will say, 'Co-
me forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye weak
ones, come forth, ye children of shame!' And
we shall all come forth, without shame and
shall stand before him. And He will say unto
us, 'Ye are swine, made in the Image of the
Beast and with his mark; but come ye also!'
And the wise ones and those of understanding
will say, 'Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these
men?' And He will say, 'This is why I receive
them, oh ye wise, this is why I receive them, oh
ye of understanding, that not one of them be-
lieved himself to be worthy of this.' And He
will hold out His hands to us and we shall fall
down before him... and we shall weep... and we
shall understand all things! Then we shall un-
derstand all!... and all will understand, Katerina
Ivanovna even... she will understand.... Lord,
Thy kingdom come!" And he sank down on the
bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no
one, apparently oblivious of his surroundings
and plunged in deep thought. His words had
created a certain impression; there was a mo-
ment of silence; but soon laughter and oaths
were heard again.
"That's his notion!"
"Talked himself silly!"
"A fine clerk he is!"
And so on, and so on.
"Let us go, sir," said Marmeladov all at once,
raising his head and addressing Raskolnikov—
"come along with me... Kozel's house, looking
into the yard. I'm going to Katerina Ivanovna—
time I did."
Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting
to go and he had meant to help him. Marme-
ladov was much unsteadier on his legs than in
his speech and leaned heavily on the young
man. They had two or three hundred paces to
go. The drunken man was more and more
overcome by dismay and confusion as they
drew nearer the house.
"It's not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now,"
he muttered in agitation—"and that she will
begin pulling my hair. What does my hair mat-
ter! Bother my hair! That's what I say! Indeed it
will be better if she does begin pulling it, that's
not what I am afraid of... it's her eyes I am
afraid of... yes, her eyes... the red on her cheeks,
too, frightens me... and her breathing too....
Have you noticed how people in that disease
breathe... when they are excited? I am fright-
ened of the children's crying, too.... For if Sonia
has not taken them food... I don't know what's
happened! I don't know! But blows I am not
afraid of.... Know, sir, that such blows are not a
pain to me, but even an enjoyment. In fact I
can't get on without it.... It's better so. Let her
strike me, it relieves her heart... it's better so...
There is the house. The house of Kozel, the ca-
binet-maker... a German, well-to-do. Lead the
way!"
They went in from the yard and up to the
fourth storey. The staircase got darker and dar-
ker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o'-
clock and although in summer in Petersburg
there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at
the top of the stairs.
A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs
stood ajar. A very poor-looking room about ten
paces long was lighted up by a candle-end; the
whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was
all in disorder, littered up with rags of all sorts,
especially children's garments. Across the fur-
thest corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Be-
hind it probably was the bed. There was noth-
ing in the room except two chairs and a sofa
covered with American leather, full of holes,
before which stood an old deal kitchen-table,
unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the
table stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an
iron candlestick. It appeared that the family
had a room to themselves, not part of a room,
but their room was practically a passage. The
door leading to the other rooms, or rather cup-
boards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel's flat
was divided stood half open, and there was
shouting, uproar and laughter within. People
seemed to be playing cards and drinking tea
there. Words of the most unceremonious kind
flew out from time to time.
Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at
once. She was a rather tall, slim and graceful
woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent
dark brown hair and with a hectic flush in her
cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her
little room, pressing her hands against her
chest; her lips were parched and her breathing
came in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes glit-
tered as in fever and looked about with a harsh
immovable stare. And that consumptive and
excited face with the last flickering light of the
candle-end playing upon it made a sickening
impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov about
thirty years old and was certainly a strange
wife for Marmeladov.... She had not heard
them and did not notice them coming in. She
seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and see-
ing nothing. The room was close, but she had
not opened the window; a stench rose from the
staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not
closed. From the inner rooms clouds of tobacco
smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did
not close the door. The youngest child, a girl of
six, was asleep, sitting curled up on the floor
with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older
stood crying and shaking in the corner, proba-
bly he had just had a beating. Beside him stood
a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wearing a
thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cash-
mere pelisse flung over her bare shoulders,
long outgrown and barely reaching her knees.
Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her
brother's neck. She was trying to comfort him,
whispering something to him, and doing all she
could to keep him from whimpering again. At
the same time her large dark eyes, which
looked larger still from the thinness of her
frightened face, were watching her mother with
alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the door, but
dropped on his knees in the very doorway,
pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The wo-
man seeing a stranger stopped indifferently
facing him, coming to herself for a moment and
apparently wondering what he had come for.
But evidently she decided that he was going
into the next room, as he had to pass through
hers to get there. Taking no further notice of
him, she walked towards the outer door to
close it and uttered a sudden scream on seeing
her husband on his knees in the doorway.
"Ah!" she cried out in a frenzy, "he hascome
back! The criminal! the monster!... And where
is the money? What's in your pocket, show me!
And your clothes are all different! Where are
your clothes? Where is the money! Speak!"
And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov
submissively and obediently held up both arms
to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there.
"Where is the money?" she cried—"Mercy on
us, can he have drunk it all? There were twelve
silver roubles left in the chest!" and in a fury
she seized him by the hair and dragged him
into the room. Marmeladov seconded her ef-
forts by meekly crawling along on his knees.
"And this is a consolation to me! This does not
hurt me, but is a positive con-so-la-tion, ho-
nou-red sir," he called out, shaken to and fro by
his hair and even once striking the ground with
his forehead. The child asleep on the floor woke
up, and began to cry. The boy in the corner
losing all control began trembling and scream-
ing and rushed to his sister in violent terror,
almost in a fit. The eldest girl was shaking like
a leaf.
"He's drunk it! he's drunk it all," the poor wo-
man screamed in despair—"and his clothes are
gone! And they are hungry, hungry!"—and
wringing her hands she pointed to the children.
"Oh, accursed life! And you, are you not as-
hamed?"—she pounced all at once upon Ras-
kolnikov—"from the tavern! Have you been
drinking with him? You have been drinking
with him, too! Go away!"
The young man was hastening away without
uttering a word. The inner door was thrown
wide open and inquisitive faces were peering
in at it. Coarse laughing faces with pipes and
cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust them-
selves in at the doorway. Further in could be
seen figures in dressing gowns flung open, in
costumes of unseemly scantiness, some of them
with cards in their hands. They were particu-
larly diverted, when Marmeladov, dragged
about by his hair, shouted that it was a consola-
tion to him. They even began to come into the
room; at last a sinister shrill outcry was heard:
this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself
pushing her way amongst them and trying to
restore order after her own fashion and for the
hundredth time to frighten the poor woman by
ordering her with coarse abuse to clear out of
the room next day. As he went out, Raskol-
nikov had time to put his hand into his pocket,
to snatch up the coppers he had received in
exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to lay
them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on
the stairs, he changed his mind and would have
gone back.
"What a stupid thing I've done," he thought to
himself, "they have Sonia and I want it myself."
But reflecting that it would be impossible to
take it back now and that in any case he would
not have taken it, he dismissed it with a wave
of his hand and went back to his lodging. "So-
nia wants pomatum too," he said as he walked
along the street, and he laughed malignantly—
"such smartness costs money.... Hm! And may-
be Sonia herself will be bankrupt to-day, for
there is always a risk, hunting big game... dig-
ging for gold... then they would all be without a
crust to-morrow except for my money. Hurrah
for Sonia! What a mine they've dug there! And
they're making the most of it! Yes, they are ma-
king the most of it! They've wept over it and
grown used to it. Man grows used to every-
thing, the scoundrel!"
He sank into thought.
"And what if I am wrong," he cried suddenly
after a moment's thought. "What if man is not
really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the
whole race of mankind—then all the rest is pre-
judice, simply artificial terrors and there are no
barriers and it's all as it should be."
CHAPTER III
He waked up late next day after a broken sleep.
But his sleep had not refreshed him; he waked
up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked
with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard
of a room about six paces in length. It had a
poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty yel-
low paper peeling off the walls, and it was so
low-pitched that a man of more than average
height was ill at ease in it and felt every mo-
ment that he would knock his head against the
ceiling. The furniture was in keeping with the
room: there were three old chairs, rather rick-
ety; a painted table in the corner on which lay a
few manuscripts and books; the dust that lay
thick upon them showed that they had been
long untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied
almost the whole of one wall and half the floor
space of the room; it was once covered with
chintz, but was now in rags and served Raskol-
nikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as
he was, without undressing, without sheets,
wrapped in his old student's overcoat, with his
head on one little pillow, under which he hea-
ped up all the linen he had, clean and dirty, by
way of a bolster. A little table stood in front of
the sofa.
It would have been difficult to sink to a lower
ebb of disorder, but to Raskolnikov in his pre-
sent state of mind this was positively agreeable.
He had got completely away from everyone,
like a tortoise in its shell, and even the sight of a
servant girl who had to wait upon him and
looked sometimes into his room made him
writhe with nervous irritation. He was in the
condition that overtakes some monomaniacs
entirely concentrated upon one thing. His land-
lady had for the last fortnight given up sending
him in meals, and he had not yet thought of
expostulating with her, though he went with-
out his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only
servant, was rather pleased at the lodger's
mood and had entirely given up sweeping and
doing his room, only once a week or so she
would stray into his room with a broom. She
waked him up that day.
"Get up, why are you asleep?" she called to
him. "It's past nine, I have brought you some
tea; will you have a cup? I should think you're
fairly starving?"
Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and rec-
ognised Nastasya.
"From the landlady, eh?" he asked, slowly and
with a sickly face sitting up on the sofa.
"From the landlady, indeed!"
She set before him her own cracked teapot full
of weak and stale tea and laid two yellow
lumps of sugar by the side of it.
"Here, Nastasya, take it please," he said, fum-
bling in his pocket (for he had slept in his clot-
hes) and taking out a handful of coppers—"run
and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage,
the cheapest, at the pork-butcher's."
"The loaf I'll fetch you this very minute, but
wouldn't you rather have some cabbage soup
instead of sausage? It's capital soup, yester-
day's. I saved it for you yesterday, but you ca-
me in late. It's fine soup."
When the soup had been brought, and he had
begun upon it, Nastasya sat down beside him
on the sofa and began chatting. She was a coun-
try peasant-woman and a very talkative one.
"Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the
police about you," she said.
He scowled.
"To the police? What does she want?"
"You don't pay her money and you won't turn
out of the room. That's what she wants, to be
sure."
"The devil, that's the last straw," he muttered,
grinding his teeth, "no, that would not suit me...
just now. She is a fool," he added aloud. "I'll go
and talk to her to-day."
"Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But
why, if you are so clever, do you lie here like a
sack and have nothing to show for it? One time
you used to go out, you say, to teach children.
But why is it you do nothing now?"
"I am doing..." Raskolnikov began sullenly and
reluctantly.
"What are you doing?"
"Work..."
"What sort of work?"
"I am thinking," he answered seriously after a
pause.
Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter.
She was given to laughter and when anything
amused her, she laughed inaudibly, quivering
and shaking all over till she felt ill.
"And have you made much money by your
thinking?" she managed to articulate at last.
"One can't go out to give lessons without boots.
And I'm sick of it."
"Don't quarrel withyour bread and butter."
"They pay so little for lessons. What's the use of
a few coppers?" he answered, reluctantly, as
though replying to his own thought.
"And you want to get a fortune all at once?"
He looked at her strangely.
"Yes, I want a fortune," he answered firmly,
after a brief pause.
"Don't be in such a hurry, you quite frighten
me! Shall I get you the loaf or not?"
"As you please."
"Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday
when you were out."
"A letter? for me! from whom?"
"I can't say. I gave three copecks of my own to
the postman for it. Will you pay me back?"
"Then bring it to me, for God's sake, bring it,"
cried Raskolnikov greatly excited—"good
God!"
A minute later the letter was brought him. That
was it: from his mother, from the province of
R——. He turned pale when he took it. It was a
long while since he had received a letter, but
another feeling also suddenly stabbed his heart.
"Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness' sake;
here are your three copecks, but for goodness'
sake, make haste and go!"
The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not
want to open it in her presence; he wanted to
be left alone with this letter. When Nastasya had
gone out, he lifted it quickly to his lips and kis-
sed it; then he gazed intently at the address, the
small, sloping handwriting, so dear and famil-
iar, of the mother who had once taught him to
read and write. He delayed; he seemed almost
afraid of something. At last he opened it; it was
a thick heavy letter, weighing over two ounces,
two large sheets of note paper were covered
with very small handwriting.
"My dear Rodya," wrote his mother—"it's two
months since I last had a talk with you by letter
which has distressed me and even kept me
awake at night, thinking. But I am sure you will
not blame me for my inevitable silence. You
know how I love you; you are all we have to
look to, Dounia and I, you are our all, our one
hope, our one stay. What a grief it was to me
when I heard that you had given up the univer-
sity some months ago, for want of means to
keep yourself and that you had lost your les-
sons and your other work! How could I help
you out of my hundred and twenty roubles a
year pension? The fifteen roubles I sent you
four months ago I borrowed, as you know, on
security of my pension, from Vassily Ivano-
vitch Vahrushin a merchant of this town. He is
a kind-hearted man and was a friend of your
father's too. But having given him the right to
receive the pension, I had to wait till the debt
was paid off and that is only just done, so that
I've been unable to send you anything all this
time. But now, thank God, I believe I shall be
able to send you something more and in fact
we may congratulate ourselves on our good
fortune now, of which I hasten to inform you.
In the first place, would you have guessed, dear
Rodya, that your sister has been living with me
for the last six weeks and we shall not be sepa-
rated in the future. Thank God, her sufferings
are over, but I will tell you everything in order,
so that you may know just how everything has
happened and all that we have hitherto con-
cealed from you. When you wrote to me two
months ago that you had heard that Dounia
had a great deal to put up with in the Svidri-
graïlovs' house, when you wrote that and asked
me to tell you all about it—what could I write
in answer to you? If I had written the whole
truth to you, I dare say you would have thrown
up everything and have come to us, even if you
had to walk all the way, for I know your char-
acter and your feelings, and you would not let
your sister be insulted. I was in despair myself,
but what could I do? And, besides, I did not
know the whole truth myself then. What made
it all so difficult was that Dounia received a
hundred roubles in advance when she took the
place as governess in their family, on condition
of part of her salary being deducted every
month, and so it was impossible to throw up
the situation without repaying the debt. This
sum (now I can explain it all to you, my pre-
cious Rodya) she took chiefly in order to send
you sixty roubles, which you needed so terribly
then and which you received from us last year.
We deceived you then, writing that this money
came from Dounia's savings, but that was not
so, and now I tell you all about it, because,
thank God, things have suddenly changed for
the better, and that you may know how Dounia
loves you and what a heart she has. At first
indeed Mr. Svidrigaïlov treated her very rudely
and used to make disrespectful and jeering
remarks at table.... But I don't want to go into
all those painful details, so as not to worry you
for nothing when it is now all over. In short, in
spite of the kind and generous behaviour of
Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigaïlov's wife, and all
the rest of the household, Dounia had a very
hard time, especially when Mr. Svidrigaïlov,
relapsing into his old regimental habits, was
under the influence of Bacchus. And how do
you think it was all explained later on? Would
you believe that the crazy fellow had conceived
a passion for Dounia from the beginning, but
had concealed it under a show of rudeness and
contempt. Possibly he was ashamed and horri-
fied himself at his own flighty hopes, consider-
ing his years and his being the father of a fam-
ily; and that made him angry with Dounia. And
possibly, too, he hoped by his rude and sneer-
ing behaviour to hide the truth from others. But
at last he lost all control and had the face to
make Dounia an open and shameful proposal,
promising her all sorts of inducements and of-
fering, besides, to throw up everything and
take her to another estate of his, or even
abroad. You can imagine all she went through!
To leave her situation at once was impossible
not only on account of the money debt, but also
to spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna, whose
suspicions would have been aroused: and then
Dounia would have been the cause of a rupture
in the family. And it would have meant a terri-
ble scandal for Dounia too; that would have
been inevitable. There were various other rea-
sons owing to which Dounia could not hope to
escape from that awful house for another six
weeks. You know Dounia, of course; you know
how clever she is and what a strong will she
has. Dounia can endure a great deal and even
in the most difficult cases she has the fortitude
to maintain her firmness. She did not even wri-
te to me about everything for fear of upsetting
me, although we were constantly in communi-
cation. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa
Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband
imploring Dounia in the garden, and, putting
quite a wrong interpretation on the position,
threw the blame upon her, believing her to be
the cause of it all. An awful scene took place
between them on the spot in the garden; Marfa
Petrovna went so far as to strike Dounia, re-
fused to hear anything and was shouting at her
for a whole hour and then gave orders that
Dounia should be packed off at once to me in a
plain peasant's cart, into which they flung all
her things, her linen and her clothes, all pell-
mell, without folding it up and packing it. And
a heavy shower of rain came on, too, and Dou-
nia, insulted and put to shame, had to drive
with a peasant in an open cart all the seventeen
versts into town. Only think now what answer
could I have sent to the letter I received from
you two months ago and what could I have
written? I was in despair; I dared not write to
you the truth because you would have been
very unhappy, mortified and indignant, and
yet what could you do? You could only per-
haps ruin yourself, and, besides, Dounia would
not allow it; and fill up my letter with trifles
when my heart was so full of sorrow, I could
not. For a whole month the town was full of
gossip about this scandal, and it came to such a
pass that Dounia and I dared not even go to
church on account of the contemptuous looks,
whispers, and evenremarks made aloud about
us. All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody
even bowed to us in the street, and I learnt that
some shopmen and clerks were intending to
insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates
of our house with pitch, so that the landlord
began to tell us we must leave. All this was set
going by Marfa Petrovna who managed to
slander Dounia and throw dirt at her in every
family. She knows everyone in the neighbour-
hood, and that month she was continually com-
ing into the town, and as she is rather talkative
and fond of gossiping about her family affairs
and particularly of complaining to all and each
of her husband—which is not at all right—so in
a short time she had spread her story not only
in the town, but over the whole surrounding
district. It made me ill, but Dounia bore it better
than I did, and if only you could have seen how
she endured it all and tried to comfort me and
cheer me up! She is an angel! But by God's
mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr.
Svidrigaïlov returned to his senses and re-
pented and, probably feeling sorry for Dounia,
he laid before Marfa Petrovna a complete and
unmistakable proof of Dounia's innocence, in
the form of a letter Dounia had been forced to
write and give to him, before Marfa Petrovna
came upon them in the garden. This letter,
which remained in Mr. Svidrigaïlov's hands
after her departure, she had written to refuse
personal explanations and secret interviews, for
which he was entreating her. In that letter she
reproached him with great heat and indigna-
tion for the baseness of his behaviour in regard
to Marfa Petrovna, reminding him that he was
the father and head of a family and telling him
how infamous it was of him to torment and
make unhappy a defenceless girl, unhappy
enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter
was so nobly and touchingly written that I sob-
bed when I read it and to this day I cannot read
it without tears. Moreover, the evidence of the
servants, too, cleared Dounia's reputation; they
had seen and known a great deal more than
Mr. Svidrigaïlov had himself supposed—as
indeed is always the case with servants. Marfa
Petrovna was completely taken aback, and 'a-
gain crushed' as she said herself to us, but she
was completely convinced of Dounia's inno-
cence. The very next day, being Sunday, she
went straight to the Cathedral, knelt down and
prayed with tears to Our Lady to give her
strength to bear this new trial and to do her
duty. Then she came straight from the Cathe-
dral to us, told us the whole story, wept bitterly
and, fully penitent, she embraced Dounia and
besought her to forgive her. The same morning
without any delay, she went round to all the
houses in the town and everywhere, shedding
tears, she asserted in the most flattering terms
Dounia's innocence and the nobility of her feel-
ings and her behavior. What was more, she
showed and read to everyone the letter in
Dounia's own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigaïlov
and even allowed them to take copies of it—
which I must say I think was superfluous. In
this way she was busy for several days in driv-
ing about the whole town, because some people
had taken offence through precedence having
been given to others. And therefore they had to
take turns, so that in every house she was ex-
pected before she arrived, and everyone knew
that on such and such a day Marfa Petrovna
would be reading the letter in such and such a
place and people assembled for every reading
of it, even many who had heard it several times
already both in their own houses and in other
people's. In my opinion a great deal, a very
great deal of all this was unnecessary; but that's
Marfa Petrovna's character. Anyway she suc-
ceeded in completely re-establishing Dounia's
reputation and the whole ignominy of this af-
fair rested as an indelible disgrace upon her
husband, as the only person to blame, so that I
really began to feel sorry for him; it was really
treating the crazy fellow too harshly. Dounia
was at once asked to give lessons in several
families, but she refused. All of a sudden eve-
ryone began to treat her with marked respect
and all this did much to bring about the event
by which, one may say, our whole fortunes are
now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya,
that Dounia has a suitor and that she has al-
ready consented to marry him. I hasten to tell
you all about the matter, and though it has
been arranged without asking your consent, I
think you will not be aggrieved with me or
with your sister on that account, for you will
see that we could not wait and put off our deci-
sion till we heard from you. And you could not
have judged all the facts without being on the
spot. This was how it happened. He is already
of the rank of a counsellor, Pyotr Petrovitch
Luzhin, and is distantly related to Marfa Pet-
rovna, who has been very active in bringing the
match about. It began with his expressing
through her his desire to make our acquaint-
ance. He was properly received, drank coffee
with us and the very next day he sent us a letter
in which he very courteously made an offer
and begged for a speedy and decided answer.
He is a very busy man and is in a great hurry to
get to Petersburg, so that every moment is pre-
cious to him. At first, of course, we were greatly
surprised, as it had all happened so quickly
and unexpectedly. We thought and talked it
over the whole day. He is a well-to-do man, to
be depended upon, he has two posts in the
government and has already made his fortune.
It is true that he is forty-five years old, but he is
of a fairly prepossessing appearance and might
still be thought attractive by women, and he is
altogether a very respectable and presentable
man, only he seems a little morose and some-
what conceited. But possibly that may only be
the impression he makes at first sight. And be-
ware, dear Rodya, when he comes to Peters-
burg, as he shortly will do, beware of judging
him too hastily and severely, as your way is, if
there is anything you do not like in him at first
sight. I give you this warning, although I feel
sure that he will make a favourable impression
upon you. Moreover, in order to understand
any man one must be deliberate and careful to
avoid forming prejudices and mistaken ideas,
which are very difficult to correct and get over
afterwards. And Pyotr Petrovitch, judging by
many indications, is a thoroughly estimable
man. At his first visit, indeed, he told us that he
was a practical man, but still he shares, as he
expressed it, many of the convictions 'of our
most rising generation' and he is an opponent
of all prejudices. He said a good deal more, for
he seems a little conceited and likes to be lis-
tened to, but this is scarcely a vice. I, of course,
understood very little of it, but Dounia ex-
plained to me that, though he is not a man of
great education, he is clever and seems to be
good-natured. You know your sister's charac-
ter, Rodya. She is a resolute, sensible, patient
and generous girl, but she has a passionate
heart, as I know very well. Of course, there is
no great love either on his side, or on hers, but
Dounia is a clever girl and has the heart of an
angel, and will make it her duty to make her
husband happy who on his side will make her
happiness his care. Of that we have no good
reason to doubt, though it must be admitted the
matter has been arranged in great haste. Be-
sides he is a man of great prudence and he will
see, to be sure, of himself, that his own happi-
ness will be the more secure, the happier
Dounia is with him. And as for some defects of
character, for some habits and even certain dif-
ferences of opinion—which indeed are inevita-
ble even in the happiest marriages—Dounia
has said that, as regards all that, she relies on
herself, that there is nothing to be uneasy
about, and that she is ready to put up with a
great deal, if only their future relationship can
be an honourable and straightforward one. He
struck me, for instance, at first, as rather
abrupt, but that may wellcome from his being
an outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it
is. For instance, at his second visit, after he had
received Dounia's consent, in the course of
conversation, he declared that before making
Dounia's acquaintance, he had made up his
mind to marry a girl of good reputation, with-
out dowry and, above all, one who had experi-
enced poverty, because, as he explained, a man
ought not to be indebted to his wife, but that it
is better for a wife to look upon her husband as
her benefactor. I must add that he expressed it
more nicely and politely than I have done, for I
have forgotten his actual phrases and only re-
member the meaning. And, besides, it was ob-
viously not said of design, but slipped out in
the heat of conversation, so that he tried after-
wards to correct himself and smooth it over,
but all the same it did strike me as somewhat
rude, and I said so afterwards to Dounia. But
Dounia was vexed, and answered that 'words
are not deeds,' and that, of course, is perfectly
true. Dounia did not sleep all night before she
made up her mind, and, thinking that I was
asleep, she got out of bed and was walking up
and down the room all night; at last she knelt
down before the ikon and prayed long and fer-
vently and in the morning she told me that she
had decided.
"I have mentioned already that Pyotr Petrovitch
is just setting off for Petersburg, where he has a
great deal of business, and he wants to open a
legal bureau. He has been occupied for many
years in conducting civil and commercial litiga-
tion, and only the other day he won an impor-
tant case. He has to be in Petersburg because he
has an important case before the Senate. So,
Rodya dear, he may be of the greatest use to
you, in every way indeed, and Dounia and I
have agreed that from this very day you could
definitely enter upon your career and might
consider that your future is marked out and
assured for you. Oh, if only this comes to pass!
This would be such a benefit that we could on-
ly look upon it as a providential blessing. Dou-
nia is dreaming of nothing else. We have even
ventured already to drop a few words on the
subject to Pyotr Petrovitch. He was cautious in
his answer, and said that, of course, as he could
not get on without a secretary, it would be bet-
ter to be paying a salary to a relation than to a
stranger, if only the former were fitted for the
duties (as though there could be doubt of your
being fitted!) but then he expressed doubts
whether your studies at the university would
leave you time for work at his office. The mat-
ter dropped for the time, but Dounia is think-
ing of nothing else now. She has been in a sort
of fever for the last few days, and has already
made a regular plan for your becoming in the
end an associate and even a partner in Pyotr
Petrovitch's business, which might well be,
seeing that you are a student of law. I am in
complete agreement with her, Rodya, and share
all her plans and hopes, and think there is eve-
ry probability of realising them. And in spite of
Pyotr Petrovitch's evasiveness, very natural at
present (since he does not know you), Dounia
is firmly persuaded that she will gain every-
thing by her good influence over her future
husband; this she is reckoning upon. Of course
we are careful not to talk of any of these more
remote plans to Pyotr Petrovitch, especially of
your becoming his partner. He is a practical
man and might take this very coldly, it might
all seem to him simply a day-dream. Nor has
either Dounia or I breathed a word to him of
the great hopes we have of his helping us to
pay for your university studies; we have not
spoken of it in the first place, because it will
come to pass of itself, later on, and he will no
doubt without wasting words offer to do it of
himself, (as though he could refuse Dounia
that) the more readily since you may by your
own efforts become his right hand in the office,
and receive this assistance not as a charity, but
as a salary earned by your own work. Dounia
wants to arrange it all like this and I quite agree
with her. And we have not spoken of our plans
for another reason, that is, because I particu-
larly wanted you to feel on an equal footing
when you first meet him. When Dounia spoke
to him with enthusiasm about you, he an-
swered that one could never judge of a man
without seeing him close, for oneself, and that
he looked forward to forming his own opinion
when he makes your acquaintance. Do you
know, my precious Rodya, I think that perhaps
for some reasons (nothing to do with Pyotr Pet-
rovitch though, simply for my own personal,
perhaps old-womanish, fancies) I should do
better to go on living by myself, apart, than
with them, after the wedding. I am convinced
that he will be generous and delicate enough to
invite me and to urge me to remain with my
daughter for the future, and if he has said noth-
ing about it hitherto, it is simply because it has
been taken for granted; but I shall refuse. I have
noticed more than once in my life that hus-
bands don't quite get on with their mothers-in-
law, and I don't want to be the least bit in any-
one's way, and for my own sake, too, would
rather be quite independent, so long as I have a
crust of bread of my own, and such children as
you and Dounia. If possible, I would settle
somewhere near you, for the most joyful piece
of news, dear Rodya, I have kept for the end of
my letter: know then, my dear boy, that we
may, perhaps, be all together in a very short
time and may embrace one another again after
a separation of almost three years! It is settled
for certain that Dounia and I are to set off for
Petersburg, exactly when I don't know, but
very, very soon, possibly in a week. It all de-
pends on Pyotr Petrovitch who will let us know
when he has had time to look round him in
Petersburg. To suit his own arrangements he is
anxious to have the ceremony as soon as possi-
ble, even before the fast of Our Lady, if it could
be managed, or if that is too soon to be ready,
immediately after. Oh, with what happiness I
shall press you to my heart! Dounia is all ex-
citement at the joyful thought of seeing you,
she said one day in joke that she would be
ready to marry Pyotr Petrovitch for that alone.
She is an angel! She is not writing anything to
you now, and has only told me to write that she
has so much, so much to tell you that she is not
going to take up her pen now, for a few lines
would tell you nothing, and it would only
mean upsetting herself; she bids me send you
her love and innumerable kisses. But although
we shall be meeting so soon, perhaps I shall
send you as much money as I can in a day or
two. Now that everyone has heard that Dounia
is to marry Pyotr Petrovitch, my credit has
suddenly improved and I know that Afanasy
Ivanovitch will trust me now even to seventy-
five roubles on the security of my pension, so
that perhaps I shall be able to send you twenty-
five or even thirty roubles. I would send you
more, but I am uneasy about our travelling ex-
penses; for though Pyotr Petrovitch has been so
kind as to undertake part of the expenses of the
journey, that is to say, he has taken upon him-
self the conveyance of our bags and big trunk
(which will be conveyed through some ac-
quaintances of his), we must reckon upon some
expense on our arrival in Petersburg, where we
can't be left without a halfpenny, at least for the
first few days. But we have calculated it all,
Dounia and I, to the last penny, and we see that
the journey will not cost very much. It is only
ninety versts from us to the railway and we
have come to an agreement with a driver we
know, so as to be in readiness; and from there
Dounia and I can travel quite comfortably third
class. So that I may very likely be able to send
to you not twenty-five, but thirty roubles. But
enough; I have covered two sheets already and
there is no space left for more; our whole his-
tory, but so many events have happened! And
now,my precious Rodya, I embrace you and
send you a mother's blessing till we meet. Love
Dounia your sister, Rodya; love her as she loves
you and understand that she loves you beyond
everything, more than herself. She is an angel
and you, Rodya, you are everything to us—our
one hope, our one consolation. If only you are
happy, we shall be happy. Do you still say your
prayers, Rodya, and believe in the mercy of our
Creator and our Redeemer? I am afraid in my
heart that you may have been visited by the
new spirit of infidelity that is abroad to-day; If
it is so, I pray for you. Remember, dear boy,
how in your childhood, when your father was
living, you used to lisp your prayers at my
knee, and how happy we all were in those
days. Good-bye, till we meet then—I embrace
you warmly, warmly, with many kisses.
"Yours till death,
"PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV."
Almost from the first, while he read the letter,
Raskolnikov's face was wet with tears; but
when he finished it, his face was pale and dis-
torted and a bitter, wrathful and malignant
smile was on his lips. He laid his head down on
his threadbare dirty pillow and pondered,
pondered a long time. His heart was beating
violently, and his brain was in a turmoil. At last
he felt cramped and stifled in the little yellow
room that was like a cupboard or a box. His
eyes and his mind craved for space. He took up
his hat and went out, this time without dread of
meeting anyone; he had forgotten his dread. He
turned in the direction of the Vassilyevsky Os-
trov, walking along Vassilyevsky Prospect, as
though hastening on some business, but he
walked, as his habit was, without noticing his
way, muttering and even speaking aloud to
himself, to the astonishment of the passers-by.
Many of them took him to be drunk.
CHAPTER IV
His mother's letter had been a torture to him,
but as regards the chief fact in it, he had felt not
one moment's hesitation, even whilst he was
reading the letter. The essential question was
settled, and irrevocably settled, in his mind:
"Never such a marriage while I am alive and
Mr. Luzhin be damned!" "The thing is perfectly
clear," he muttered to himself, with a malignant
smile anticipating the triumph of his decision.
"No, mother, no, Dounia, you won't deceive
me! and then they apologise for not asking my
advice and for taking the decision without me!
I dare say! They imagine it is arranged now and
can't be broken off; but we will see whether it
can or not! A magnificent excuse: 'Pyotr Pet-
rovitch is such a busy man that even his wed-
ding has to be in post-haste, almost by express.'
No, Dounia, I see it all and I know what you
want to say to me; and I know too what you
were thinking about, when you walked up and
down all night, and what your prayers were
like before the Holy Mother of Kazan who
stands in mother's bedroom. Bitter is the ascent
to Golgotha.... Hm... so it is finally settled; you
have determined to marry a sensible business
man, Avdotya Romanovna, one who has a for-
tune (has already made his fortune, that is so
much more solid and impressive) a man who
holds two government posts and who shares
the ideas of our most rising generation, as mot-
her writes, and who seems to be kind, as Dounia
herself observes. That seems beats everything!
And that very Dounia for that very 'seems' is
marrying him! Splendid! splendid!
"... But I should like to know why mother has
written to me about 'our most rising genera-
tion'? Simply as a descriptive touch, or with the
idea of prepossessing me in favour of Mr. Luz-
hin? Oh, the cunning of them! I should like to
know one thing more: how far they were open
with one another that day and night and all this
time since? Was it all put into words, or did
both understand that they had the same thing
at heart and in their minds, so that there was no
need to speak of it aloud, and better not to
speak of it. Most likely it was partly like that,
from mother's letter it's evident: he struck her
as rude a little, and mother in her simplicity
took her observations to Dounia. And she was
sure to be vexed and 'answered her angrily.' I
should think so! Who would not be angered
when it was quite clear without any naïve ques-
tions and when it was understood that it was
useless to discuss it. And why does she write to
me, 'love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you
more than herself'? Has she a secret conscience-
prick at sacrificing her daughter to her son?
'You are our one comfort, you are everything to
us.' Oh, mother!"
His bitterness grew more and more intense,
and if he had happened to meet Mr. Luzhin at
the moment, he might have murdered him.
"Hm... yes, that's true," he continued, pursuing
the whirling ideas that chased each other in his
brain, "it is true that 'it needs time and care to
get to know a man,' but there is no mistake
about Mr. Luzhin. The chief thing is he is 'a
man of business and seems kind,' that was so-
mething, wasn't it, to send the bags and big box
for them! A kind man, no doubt after that! But
his bride and her mother are to drive in a peas-
ant's cart covered with sacking (I know, I have
been driven in it). No matter! It is only ninety
versts and then they can 'travel very comforta-
bly, third class,' for a thousand versts! Quite
right, too. One must cut one's coat according to
one's cloth, but what about you, Mr. Luzhin?
She is your bride.... And you must be aware
that her mother has to raise money on her pen-
sion for the journey. To be sure it's a matter of
business, a partnership for mutual benefit, with
equal shares and expenses;—food and drink
provided, but pay for your tobacco. The busi-
ness man has got the better of them, too. The
luggage will cost less than their fares and very
likely go for nothing. How is it that they don't
both see all that, or is it that they don't want to
see? And they are pleased, pleased! And to
think that this is only the first blossoming, and
that the real fruits are to come! But what really
matters is not the stinginess, is not the mean-
ness, but the tone of the whole thing. For that
will be the tone after marriage, it's a foretaste of
it. And mother too, why should she be so lav-
ish? What will she have by the time she gets to
Petersburg? Three silver roubles or two 'paper
ones' as she says.... that old woman... hm. What
does she expect to live upon in Petersburg af-
terwards? She has her reasons already for gues-
sing that she could not live with Dounia after
the marriage, even for the first few months. The
good man has no doubt let slip something on
that subject also, though mother would deny it:
'I shall refuse,' says she. On whom is she reck-
oning then? Is she counting on what is left of
her hundred and twenty roubles of pension
when Afanasy Ivanovitch's debt is paid? She
knits woollen shawls and embroiders cuffs,
ruining her old eyes. And all her shawls don't
add more than twenty roubles a year to her
hundred and twenty, I know that. So she is
building all her hopes all the time on Mr. Luz-
hin's generosity; 'he will offer it of himself, he
will press it on me.' You may wait a long time
for that! That's how it always is with these
Schilleresque noble hearts; till the last moment
every goose is a swan with them, till the last
moment, they hope for the best and will see
nothing wrong, and although they have an ink-
ling of the other side of the picture, yet they
won't face the truth till they are forced to; the
very thought of it makes them shiver; they
thrust the truth away with both hands, until the
man they deck out in false colours puts a fool's
cap on them with his own hands. I should like
to know whether Mr. Luzhin has any orders of
merit; I bet he has the Anna in his buttonhole
and that he puts it on when he goes to dine
with contractors or merchants. He will be sure
to have it for his wedding, too! Enough of him,
confound him!
"Well,... mother I don't wonder at, it's like her,
God bless her, but how could Dounia? Douniadarling, as though I did not know you! You
were nearly twenty when I saw you last: I un-
derstood you then. Mother writes that 'Dounia
can put up with a great deal.' I know that very
well. I knew that two years and a half ago, and
for the last two and a half years I have been
thinking about it, thinking of just that, that
'Dounia can put up with a great deal.' If she
could put up with Mr. Svidrigaïlov and all the
rest of it, she certainly can put up with a great
deal. And now mother and she have taken it
into their heads that she can put up with Mr.
Luzhin, who propounds the theory of the supe-
riority of wives raised from destitution and
owing everything to their husband's bounty—
who propounds it, too, almost at the first inter-
view. Granted that he 'let it slip,' though he is a
sensible man, (yet maybe it was not a slip at all,
but he meant to make himself clear as soon as
possible) but Dounia, Dounia? She understands
the man, of course, but she will have to live
with the man. Why! she'd live on black bread
and water, she would not sell her soul, she
would not barter her moral freedom for com-
fort; she would not barter it for all Schleswig-
Holstein, much less Mr. Luzhin's money. No,
Dounia was not that sort when I knew her
and... she is still the same, of course! Yes, the-
re's no denying, the Svidrigaïlovs are a bitter
pill! It's a bitter thing to spend one's life a gov-
erness in the provinces for two hundred rou-
bles, but I know she would rather be a nigger
on a plantation or a Lett with a German master
than degrade her soul, and her moral dignity,
by binding herself for ever to a man whom she
does not respect and with whom she has noth-
ing in common—for her own advantage. And if
Mr. Luzhin had been of unalloyed gold, or one
huge diamond, she would never have con-
sented to become his legal concubine. Why is
she consenting then? What's the point of it?
What's the answer? It's clear enough: for her-
self, for her comfort, to save her life she would
not sell herself, but for someone else she is do-
ing it! For one she loves, for one she adores, she
will sell herself! That's what it all amounts to;
for her brother, for her mother, she will sell
herself! She will sell everything! In such cases,
'we overcome our moral feeling if necessary,'
freedom, peace, conscience even, all, all are
brought into the market. Let my life go, if only
my dear ones may be happy! More than that,
we become casuists, we learn to be Jesuitical
and for a time maybe we can soothe ourselves,
we can persuade ourselves that it is one's duty
for a good object. That's just like us, it's as clear
as daylight. It's clear that Rodion Romanovitch
Raskolnikov is the central figure in the busi-
ness, and no one else. Oh, yes, she can ensure
his happiness, keep him in the university, make
him a partner in the office, make his whole fu-
ture secure; perhaps he may even be a rich man
later on, prosperous, respected, and may even
end his life a famous man! But my mother? It's
all Rodya, precious Rodya, her first born! For
such a son who would not sacrifice such a
daughter! Oh, loving, over-partial hearts! Why,
for his sake we would not shrink even from
Sonia's fate. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the
eternal victim so long as the world lasts. Have
you taken the measure of your sacrifice, both of
you? Is it right? Can you bear it? Is it any use?
Is there sense in it? And let me tell you, Dounia,
Sonia's life is no worse than life with Mr. Luz-
hin. 'There can be no question of love,' mother
writes. And what if there can be no respect ei-
ther, if on the contrary there is aversion, con-
tempt, repulsion, what then? So you will have
to 'keep up your appearance,' too. Is not that
so? Do you understand what that smartness
means? Do you understand that the Luzhin
smartness is just the same thing as Sonia's and
may be worse, viler, baser, because in your ca-
se, Dounia, it's a bargain for luxuries, after all,
but with Sonia it's simply a question of starva-
tion. It has to be paid for, it has to be paid for,
Dounia, this smartness. And what if it's more
than you can bear afterwards, if you regret it?
The bitterness, the misery, the curses, the tears
hidden from all the world, for you are not a
Marfa Petrovna. And how will your mother
feel then? Even now she is uneasy, she is wor-
ried, but then, when she sees it all clearly? And
I? Yes, indeed, what have you taken me for? I
won't have your sacrifice, Dounia, I won't have
it, mother! It shall not be, so long as I am alive,
it shall not, it shall not! I won't accept it!"
He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood
still.
"It shall not be? But what are you going to do to
prevent it? You'll forbid it? And what right
have you? What can you promise them on your
side to give you such a right? Your whole life,
your whole future, you will devote to them
when you have finished your studies and obtained a
post? Yes, we have heard all that before, and
that's all words, but now? Now something must
be done, now, do you understand that? And
what are you doing now? You are living upon
them. They borrow on their hundred roubles
pension. They borrow from the Svidrigaïlovs.
How are you going to save them from Svidri-
gaïlovs, from Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin,
oh, future millionaire Zeus who would arrange
their lives for them? In another ten years? In
another ten years, mother will be blind with
knitting shawls, maybe with weeping too. She
will be worn to a shadow with fasting; and my
sister? Imagine for a moment what may have
become of your sister in ten years? What may
happen to her during those ten years? Can you
fancy?"
So he tortured himself, fretting himself with
such questions, and finding a kind of enjoy-
ment in it. And yet all these questions were not
new ones suddenly confronting him, they were
old familiar aches. It was long since they had
first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long,
long ago his present anguish had its first be-
ginnings; it had waxed and gathered strength,
it had matured and concentrated, until it had
taken the form of a fearful, frenzied and fantas-
tic question, which tortured his heart and mind,
clamouring insistently for an answer. Now his
mother's letter had burst on him like a thunder-
clap. It was clear that he must not now suffer
passively, worrying himself over unsolved
questions, but that he must do something, do it
at once, and do it quickly. Anyway he must
decide on something, or else...
"Or throw up life altogether!" he cried sud-
denly, in a frenzy—"accept one's lot humbly as
it is, once for all and stifle everything in oneself,
giving up all claim to activity, life and love!"
"Do you understand, sir, do you understand
what it means when you have absolutely no-
where to turn?" Marmeladov's question came
suddenly into his mind, "for every man must
have somewhere to turn...."
He gave a sudden start; another thought, that
he had had yesterday, slipped back into his
mind. But he did not start at the thought recur-
ring to him, for he knew, he had felt beforehand,
that it must come back, he was expecting it;
besides it was not only yesterday's thought.
The difference was that a month ago, yesterday
even, the thought was a mere dream: but now...
now it appeared not a dream at all, it had taken
a new menacing and quite unfamiliar shape,
and he suddenly became aware of this him-
self.... He felt a hammering in his head, and
there was a darkness before his eyes.
He looked round hurriedly, he was searching
for something. He wanted to sit down and was
looking for a seat; he was walking along the
K—— Boulevard. There was a seat about a
hundred paces in front of him. He walked to-
wards it as fast he could; but on the way he met
with a little adventure which absorbed all his
attention. Looking for the seat, he had noticed a
woman walking some twenty paces in front of
him, but at first he took no more notice of her
than of other objects that crossed his path. It
had happened to him manytimes going home
not to notice the road by which he was going,
and he was accustomed to walk like that. But
there was at first sight something so strange
about the woman in front of him, that gradu-
ally his attention was riveted upon her, at first
reluctantly and, as it were, resentfully, and then
more and more intently. He felt a sudden de-
sire to find out what it was that was so strange
about the woman. In the first place, she ap-
peared to be a girl quite young, and she was
walking in the great heat bareheaded and with
no parasol or gloves, waving her arms about in
an absurd way. She had on a dress of some
light silky material, but put on strangely awry,
not properly hooked up, and torn open at the
top of the skirt, close to the waist: a great piece
was rent and hanging loose. A little kerchief
was flung about her bare throat, but lay slant-
ing on one side. The girl was walking unstead-
ily, too, stumbling and staggering from side to
side. She drew Raskolnikov's whole attention at
last. He overtook the girl at the seat, but, on
reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the cor-
ner; she let her head sink on the back of the seat
and closed her eyes, apparently in extreme ex-
haustion. Looking at her closely, he saw at once
that she was completely drunk. It was a strange
and shocking sight. He could hardly believe
that he was not mistaken. He saw before him
the face of a quite young, fair-haired girl—
sixteen, perhaps not more than fifteen, years
old, pretty little face, but flushed and heavy
looking and, as it were, swollen. The girl
seemed hardly to know what she was doing;
she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it
indecorously, and showed every sign of being
unconscious that she was in the street.
Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt un-
willing to leave her, and stood facing her in
perplexity. This boulevard was never much
frequented; and now, at two o'clock, in the sti-
fling heat, it was quite deserted. And yet on the
further side of the boulevard, about fifteen
paces away, a gentleman was standing on the
edge of the pavement. He, too, would appar-
ently have liked to approach the girl with some
object of his own. He, too, had probably seen
her in the distance and had followed her, but
found Raskolnikov in his way. He looked an-
grily at him, though he tried to escape his no-
tice, and stood impatiently biding his time, till
the unwelcome man in rags should have
moved away. His intentions were unmistak-
able. The gentleman was a plump, thickly-set
man, about thirty, fashionably dressed, with a
high colour, red lips and moustaches. Raskol-
nikov felt furious; he had a sudden longing to
insult this fat dandy in some way. He left the
girl for a moment and walked towards the gen-
tleman.
"Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What do you want
here?" he shouted, clenching his fists and laug-
hing, spluttering with rage.
"What do you mean?" the gentleman asked
sternly, scowling in haughty astonishment.
"Get away, that's what I mean."
"How dare you, you low fellow!"
He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him
with his fists, without reflecting that the stout
gentleman was a match for two men like him-
self. But at that instant someone seized him
from behind, and a police constable stood be-
tween them.
"That's enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please,
in a public place. What do you want? Who are
you?" he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing
his rags.
Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a
straight-forward, sensible, soldierly face, with
grey moustaches and whiskers.
"You are just the man I want," Raskolnikov
cried, catching at his arm. "I am a student, Ras-
kolnikov.... You may as well know that too," he
added, addressing the gentleman, "come along,
I have something to show you."
And taking the policeman by the hand he drew
him towards the seat.
"Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just
come down the boulevard. There is no telling
who and what she is, she does not look like a
professional. It's more likely she has been given
drink and deceived somewhere... for the first
time... you understand? and they've put her out
into the street like that. Look at the way her
dress is torn, and the way it has been put on:
she has been dressed by somebody, she has not
dressed herself, and dressed by unpractised
hands, by a man's hands; that's evident. And
now look there: I don't know that dandy with
whom I was going to fight, I see him for the
first time, but he, too, has seen her on the road,
just now, drunk, not knowing what she is do-
ing, and now he is very eager to get hold of her,
to get her away somewhere while she is in this
state... that's certain, believe me, I am not
wrong. I saw him myself watching her and fol-
lowing her, but I prevented him, and he is just
waiting for me to go away. Now he has walked
away a little, and is standing still, pretending to
make a cigarette.... Think how can we keep her
out of his hands, and how are we to get her
home?"
The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout
gentleman was easy to understand, he turned
to consider the girl. The policeman bent over to
examine her more closely, and his face worked
with genuine compassion.
"Ah, what a pity!" he said, shaking his head—
"why, she is quite a child! She has been de-
ceived, you can see that at once. Listen, lady,"
he began addressing her, "where do you live?"
The girl opened her weary and sleepy-looking
eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and waved
her hand.
"Here," said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket
and finding twenty copecks, "here, call a cab
and tell him to drive her to her address. The
only thing is to find out her address!"
"Missy, missy!" the policeman began again,
taking the money. "I'll fetch you a cab and take
you home myself. Where shall I take you, eh?
Where do you live?"
"Go away! They won't let me alone," the girl
muttered, and once more waved her hand.
"Ach, ach, how shocking! It's shameful, missy,
it's a shame!" He shook his head again, shoc-
ked, sympathetic and indignant.
"It's a difficult job," the policeman said to Ras-
kolnikov, and as he did so, he looked him up
and down in a rapid glance. He, too, must have
seemed a strange figure to him: dressed in rags
and handing him money!
"Did you meet her far from here?" he asked
him.
"I tell you she was walking in front of me, stag-
gering, just here, in the boulevard. She only just
reached the seat and sank down on it."
"Ah, the shameful things that are done in the
world nowadays, God have mercy on us! An
innocent creature like that, drunk already! She
has been deceived, that's a sure thing. See how
her dress has been torn too.... Ah, the vice one
sees nowadays! And as likely as not she be-
longs to gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe....
There are many like that nowadays. She looks
refined, too, as though she were a lady," and he
bent over her once more.
Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that,
"looking like ladies and refined" with preten-
sions to gentility and smartness....
"The chief thing is," Raskolnikov persisted, "to
keep her out of this scoundrel's hands! Why
should he outrage her! It's as clear as day what
he is after; ah, the brute, he is not moving off!"
Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him.
The gentleman heard him, and seemed about to
fly into a rage again, but thought better of it,
and confined himself to a contemptuous look.
He then walked slowly another ten paces away
and again halted.
"Keep her out of his hands we can," said the
constable thoughtfully, "if only she'd tell us
where to take her, but as it is.... Missy, hey,
missy!" he bent over her once more.
She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, loo-
ked at him intently, as though realising some-
thing, got up from the seat and walked away in
the direction from which she had come. "Oh
shameful wretches, they won't let me alone!"
she said, waving her hand again. She walked
quickly, though staggering as before. The dan-
dy followed her,but along another avenue,
keeping his eye on her.
"Don't be anxious, I won't let him have her," the
policeman said resolutely, and he set off after
them.
"Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!" he repeated
aloud, sighing.
At that moment something seemed to sting
Raskolnikov; in an instant a complete revulsion
of feeling came over him.
"Hey, here!" he shouted after the policeman.
The latter turned round.
"Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her
go! Let him amuse himself." He pointed at the
dandy, "What is it to do with you?"
The policeman was bewildered, and stared at
him open-eyed. Raskolnikov laughed.
"Well!" ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture
of contempt, and he walked after the dandy
and the girl, probably taking Raskolnikov for a
madman or something even worse.
"He has carried off my twenty copecks," Ras-
kolnikov murmured angrily when he was left
alone. "Well, let him take as much from the
other fellow to allow him to have the girl and
so let it end. And why did I want to interfere?
Is it for me to help? Have I any right to help?
Let them devour each other alive—what is to
me? How did I dare to give him twenty co-
pecks? Were they mine?"
In spite of those strange words he felt very
wretched. He sat down on the deserted seat.
His thoughts strayed aimlessly.... He found it
hard to fix his mind on anything at that mo-
ment. He longed to forget himself altogether, to
forget everything, and then to wake up and
begin life anew....
"Poor girl!" he said, looking at the empty corner
where she had sat—"She will come to herself
and weep, and then her mother will find out....
She will give her a beating, a horrible, shameful
beating and then maybe, turn her out of
doors.... And even if she does not, the Darya
Frantsovnas will get wind of it, and the girl will
soon be slipping out on the sly here and there.
Then there will be the hospital directly (that's
always the luck of those girls with respectable
mothers, who go wrong on the sly) and then...
again the hospital... drink... the taverns... and
more hospital, in two or three years—a wreck,
and her life over at eighteen or nineteen....
Have not I seen cases like that? And how have
they been brought to it? Why, they've all come
to it like that. Ugh! But what does it matter?
That's as it should be, they tell us. A certain
percentage, they tell us, must every year go...
that way... to the devil, I suppose, so that the
rest may remain chaste, and not be interfered
with. A percentage! What splendid words they
have; they are so scientific, so consolatory....
Once you've said 'percentage' there's nothing
more to worry about. If we had any other
word... maybe we might feel more uneasy....
But what if Dounia were one of the percentage!
Of another one if not that one?
"But where am I going?" he thought suddenly.
"Strange, I came out for something. As soon as I
had read the letter I came out.... I was going to
Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to Razumihin. That's
what it was... now I remember. What for,
though? And what put the idea of going to Ra-
zumihin into my head just now? That's curi-
ous."
He wondered at himself. Razumihin was one of
his old comrades at the university. It was re-
markable that Raskolnikov had hardly any
friends at the university; he kept aloof from
everyone, went to see no one, and did not wel-
come anyone who came to see him, and indeed
everyone soon gave him up. He took no part in
the students' gatherings, amusements or con-
versations. He worked with great intensity
without sparing himself, and he was respected
for this, but no one liked him. He was very
poor, and there was a sort of haughty pride and
reserve about him, as though he were keeping
something to himself. He seemed to some of his
comrades to look down upon them all as chil-
dren, as though he were superior in develop-
ment, knowledge and convictions, as though
their beliefs and interests were beneath him.
With Razumihin he had got on, or, at least, he
was more unreserved and communicative with
him. Indeed it was impossible to be on any ot-
her terms with Razumihin. He was an excep-
tionally good-humoured and candid youth,
good-natured to the point of simplicity, though
both depth and dignity lay concealed under
that simplicity. The better of his comrades un-
derstood this, and all were fond of him. He was
extremely intelligent, though he was certainly
rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking
appearance—tall, thin, blackhaired and always
badly shaved. He was sometimes uproarious
and was reputed to be of great physical
strength. One night, when out in a festive com-
pany, he had with one blow laid a gigantic po-
liceman on his back. There was no limit to his
drinking powers, but he could abstain from
drink altogether; he sometimes went too far in
his pranks; but he could do without pranks
altogether. Another thing striking about Razu-
mihin, no failure distressed him, and it seemed
as though no unfavourable circumstances could
crush him. He could lodge anywhere, and bear
the extremes of cold and hunger. He was very
poor, and kept himself entirely on what he
could earn by work of one sort or another. He
knew of no end of resources by which to earn
money. He spent one whole winter without
lighting his stove, and used to declare that he
liked it better, because one slept more soundly
in the cold. For the present he, too, had been
obliged to give up the university, but it was
only for a time, and he was working with all his
might to save enough to return to his studies
again. Raskolnikov had not been to see him for
the last four months, and Razumihin did not
even know his address. About two months be-
fore, they had met in the street, but Raskol-
nikov had turned away and even crossed to the
other side that he might not be observed. And
though Razumihin noticed him, he passed him
by, as he did not want to annoy him.
CHAPTER V
"Of course, I've been meaning lately to go to
Razumihin's to ask for work, to ask him to get
me lessons or something..." Raskolnikov
thought, "but what help can he be to me now?
Suppose he gets me lessons, suppose he shares
his last farthing with me, if he has any far-
things, so that I could get some boots and make
myself tidy enough to give lessons... hm... Well
and what then? What shall I do with the few
coppers I earn? That's not what I want now. It's
really absurd for me to go to Razumihin...."
The question why he was now going to Razu-
mihin agitated him even more than he was
himself aware; he kept uneasily seeking for
some sinister significance in this apparently
ordinary action.
"Could I have expected to set it all straight and
to find a way out by means of Razumihin alo-
ne?" he asked himself in perplexity.
He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and,
strange to say, after long musing, suddenly, as
if it were spontaneously and by chance, a fan-
tastic thought came into his head.
"Hm... to Razumihin's," he said all at once,
calmly, as though he had reached a final de-
termination. "I shall go to Razumihin's of
course, but... not now. I shall go to him... on the
next day after It, when It will be over and eve-
rything will begin afresh...."
And suddenly he realised what he was think-
ing.
"After It," he shouted, jumping up from the
seat, "but is It really going to happen? Is it pos-
sible it really will happen?" He left the seat, and
went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back,
homewards, but the thought of going home
suddenly filled him with intense loathing; in
that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all
this had for a month past been growing up in
him; and he walked on at random.
His nervous shudder had passed into a fever
that made him feel shivering; in spite of the
heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he began
almost unconsciously, from some inner crav-
ing, to stare at all the objects before him, as
though looking for something to distract his
attention; but he did not succeed,and kept
dropping every moment into brooding. When
with a start he lifted his head again and looked
round, he forgot at once what he had just been
thinking about and even where he was going.
In this way he walked right across Vassilyevsky
Ostrov, came out on to the Lesser Neva, cros-
sed the bridge and turned towards the islands.
The greenness and freshness were at first rest-
ful to his weary eyes after the dust of the town
and the huge houses that hemmed him in and
weighed upon him. Here there were no tav-
erns, no stifling closeness, no stench. But soon
these new pleasant sensations passed into mor-
bid irritability. Sometimes he stood still before
a brightly painted summer villa standing
among green foliage, he gazed through the fen-
ce, he saw in the distance smartly dressed wo-
men on the verandahs and balconies, and chil-
dren running in the gardens. The flowers espe-
cially caught his attention; he gazed at them
longer than at anything. He was met, too, by
luxurious carriages and by men and women on
horseback; he watched them with curious eyes
and forgot about them before they had van-
ished from his sight. Once he stood still and
counted his money; he found he had thirty co-
pecks. "Twenty to the policeman, three to Nas-
tasya for the letter, so I must have given forty-
seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs yesterday,"
he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown
reason, but he soon forgot with what object he
had taken the money out of his pocket. He re-
called it on passing an eating-house or tavern,
and felt that he was hungry.... Going into the
tavern he drank a glass of vodka and ate a pie
of some sort. He finished eating it as he walked
away. It was a long while since he had taken
vodka and it had an effect upon him at once,
though he only drank a wineglassful. His legs
felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness
came upon him. He turned homewards, but
reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped com-
pletely exhausted, turned off the road into the
bushes, sank down upon the grass and in-
stantly fell asleep.
In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams of-
ten have a singular actuality, vividness, and
extraordinary semblance of reality. At times
monstrous images are created, but the setting
and the whole picture are so truth-like and fi-
lled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly,
but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer,
were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev
even, could never have invented them in the
waking state. Such sick dreams always remain
long in the memory and make a powerful im-
pression on the overwrought and deranged
nervous system.
Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he
was back in his childhood in the little town of
his birth. He was a child about seven years old,
walking into the country with his father on the
evening of a holiday. It was a grey and heavy
day, the country was exactly as he remembered
it; indeed he recalled it far more vividly in his
dream than he had done in memory. The little
town stood on a level flat as bare as the hand,
not even a willow near it; only in the far dis-
tance, a copse lay, a dark blur on the very edge
of the horizon. A few paces beyond the last
market garden stood a tavern, a big tavern,
which had always aroused in him a feeling of
aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it
with his father. There was always a crowd
there, always shouting, laughter and abuse,
hideous hoarse singing and often fighting.
Drunken and horrible-looking figures were
hanging about the tavern. He used to cling
close to his father, trembling all over when he
met them. Near the tavern the road became a
dusty track, the dust of which was always
black. It was a winding road, and about a hun-
dred paces further on, it turned to the right to
the graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard
stood a stone church with a green cupola where
he used to go to mass two or three times a year
with his father and mother, when a service was
held in memory of his grandmother, who had
long been dead, and whom he had never seen.
On these occasions they used to take on a white
dish tied up in a table napkin a special sort of
rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in the
shape of a cross. He loved that church, the old-
fashioned, unadorned ikons and the old priest
with the shaking head. Near his grandmother's
grave, which was marked by a stone, was the
little grave of his younger brother who had
died at six months old. He did not remember
him at all, but he had been told about his little
brother, and whenever he visited the graveyard
he used religiously and reverently to cross him-
self and to bow down and kiss the little grave.
And now he dreamt that he was walking with
his father past the tavern on the way to the
graveyard; he was holding his father's hand
and looking with dread at the tavern. A pecu-
liar circumstance attracted his attention: there
seemed to be some kind of festivity going on,
there were crowds of gaily dressed townspeo-
ple, peasant women, their husbands, and riff-
raff of all sorts, all singing and all more or less
drunk. Near the entrance of the tavern stood a
cart, but a strange cart. It was one of those big
carts usually drawn by heavy cart-horses and
laden with casks of wine or other heavy goods.
He always liked looking at those great cart-
horses, with their long manes, thick legs, and
slow even pace, drawing along a perfect moun-
tain with no appearance of effort, as though it
were easier going with a load than without it.
But now, strange to say, in the shafts of such a
cart he saw a thin little sorrel beast, one of those
peasants' nags which he had often seen strain-
ing their utmost under a heavy load of wood or
hay, especially when the wheels were stuck in
the mud or in a rut. And the peasants would
beat them so cruelly, sometimes even about the
nose and eyes, and he felt so sorry, so sorry for
them that he almost cried, and his mother al-
ways used to take him away from the window.
All of a sudden there was a great uproar of
shouting, singing and the balalaïka, and from
the tavern a number of big and very drunken
peasants came out, wearing red and blue shirts
and coats thrown over their shoulders.
"Get in, get in!" shouted one of them, a young
thick-necked peasant with a fleshy face red as a
carrot. "I'll take you all, get in!"
But at once there was an outbreak of laughter
and exclamations in the crowd.
"Take us all with a beast like that!"
"Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like
that in such a cart?"
"And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!"
"Get in, I'll take you all," Mikolka shouted
again, leaping first into the cart, seizing the
reins and standing straight up in front. "The
bay has gone with Matvey," he shouted from
the cart—"and this brute, mates, is just breaking
my heart, I feel as if I could kill her. She's just
eating her head off. Get in, I tell you! I'll make
her gallop! She'll gallop!" and he picked up the
whip, preparing himself with relish to flog the
little mare.
"Get in! Come along!" The crowd laughed.
"D'you hear, she'll gallop!"
"Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her
for the last ten years!"
"She'll jog along!"
"Don't you mind her, mates, bring a whip each
of you, get ready!"
"All right! Give it to her!"
They all clambered into Mikolka's cart, laugh-
ing and making jokes. Six men got in and there
was still room for more. They hauled in a fat,
rosy-cheeked woman. She was dressed in red
cotton, in a pointed, beaded headdress and
thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and
laughing. The crowd round them was laughing
too and indeed, how could they help laughing?
That wretched nag was to drag all the cartload
of them at a gallop! Two young fellows in the
cart were just getting whips ready to help Mi-
kolka. With the cry of "now," the mare tugged
with all her might, but far from galloping,
could scarcely move forward; she struggled
with her legs, gasping and shrinking from the
blows of the three whips whichwere showered
upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and
in the crowd was redoubled, but Mikolka flew
into a rage and furiously thrashed the mare, as
though he supposed she really could gallop.
"Let me get in, too, mates," shouted a young
man in the crowd whose appetite was aroused.
"Get in, all get in," cried Mikolka, "she will
draw you all. I'll beat her to death!" And he
thrashed and thrashed at the mare, beside him-
self with fury.
"Father, father," he cried, "father, what are they
doing? Father, they are beating the poor horse!"
"Come along, come along!" said his father.
"They are drunken and foolish, they are in fun;
come away, don't look!" and he tried to draw
him away, but he tore himself away from his
hand, and, beside himself with horror, ran to
the horse. The poor beast was in a bad way. She
was gasping, standing still, then tugging again
and almost falling.
"Beat her to death," cried Mikolka, "it's come to
that. I'll do for her!"
"What are you about, are you a Christian, you
devil?" shouted an old man in the crowd.
"Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag
like that pulling such a cartload," said another.
"You'll kill her," shouted the third.
"Don't meddle! It's my property, I'll do what I
choose. Get in, more of you! Get in, all of you! I
will have her go at a gallop!..."
All at once laughter broke into a roar and cov-
ered everything: the mare, roused by the
shower of blows, began feebly kicking. Even
the old man could not help smiling. To think of
a wretched little beast like that trying to kick!
Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and
ran to the mare to beat her about the ribs. One
ran each side.
"Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes,"
cried Mikolka.
"Give us a song, mates," shouted someone in
the cart and everyone in the cart joined in a
riotous song, jingling a tambourine and whis-
tling. The woman went on cracking nuts and
laughing.
... He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her,
saw her being whipped across the eyes, right in
the eyes! He was crying, he felt choking, his
tears were streaming. One of the men gave him
a cut with the whip across the face, he did not
feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he
rushed up to the grey-headed old man with the
grey beard, who was shaking his head in dis-
approval. One woman seized him by the hand
and would have taken him away, but he tore
himself from her and ran back to the mare. She
was almost at the last gasp, but began kicking
once more.
"I'll teach you to kick," Mikolka shouted fero-
ciously. He threw down the whip, bent forward
and picked up from the bottom of the cart a
long, thick shaft, he took hold of one end with
both hands and with an effort brandished it
over the mare.
"He'll crush her," was shouted round him.
"He'll kill her!"
"It's my property," shouted Mikolka and
brought the shaft down with a swinging blow.
There was a sound of a heavy thud.
"Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stop-
ped?" shouted voices in the crowd.
And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time
and it fell a second time on the spine of the luc-
kless mare. She sank back on her haunches, but
lurched forward and tugged forward with all
her force, tugged first on one side and then on
the other, trying to move the cart. But the six
whips were attacking her in all directions, and
the shaft was raised again and fell upon her a
third time, then a fourth, with heavy measured
blows. Mikolka was in a fury that he could not
kill her at one blow.
"She's a tough one," was shouted in the crowd.
"She'll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be
an end of her," said an admiring spectator in
the crowd.
"Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off," shouted a
third.
"I'll show you! Stand off," Mikolka screamed
frantically; he threw down the shaft, stooped
down in the cart and picked up an iron crow-
bar. "Look out," he shouted, and with all his
might he dealt a stunning blow at the poor ma-
re. The blow fell; the mare staggered, sank
back, tried to pull, but the bar fell again with a
swinging blow on her back and she fell on the
ground like a log.
"Finish her off," shouted Mikolka and he leapt
beside himself, out of the cart. Several young
men, also flushed with drink, seized anything
they could come across—whips, sticks, poles,
and ran to the dying mare. Mikolka stood on
one side and began dealing random blows with
the crowbar. The mare stretched out her head,
drew a long breath and died.
"You butchered her," someone shouted in the
crowd.
"Why wouldn't she gallop then?"
"My property!" shouted Mikolka, with blood-
shot eyes, brandishing the bar in his hands. He
stood as though regretting that he had nothing
more to beat.
"No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,"
many voices were shouting in the crowd.
But the poor boy, beside himself, made his
way, screaming, through the crowd to the sor-
rel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead
head and kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed
the lips.... Then he jumped up and flew in a
frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At
that instant his father, who had been running
after him, snatched him up and carried him out
of the crowd.
"Come along, come! Let us go home," he said to
him.
"Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!"
he sobbed, but his voice broke and the words
came in shrieks from his panting chest.
"They are drunk.... They are brutal... it's not our
business!" said his father. He put his arms
round his father but he felt choked, choked. He
tried to draw a breath, to cry out—and woke
up.
He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soa-
ked with perspiration, and stood up in terror.
"Thank God, that was only a dream," he said,
sitting down under a tree and drawing deep
breaths. "But what is it? Is it some fever coming
on? Such a hideous dream!"
He felt utterly broken: darkness and confusion
were in his soul. He rested his elbows on his
knees and leaned his head on his hands.
"Good God!" he cried, "can it be, can it be, that I
shall really take an axe, that I shall strike her on
the head, split her skull open... that I shall tread
in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal
and tremble; hide, all spattered in the blood...
with the axe.... Good God, can it be?"
He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.
"But why am I going on like this?" he contin-
ued, sitting up again, as it were in profound
amazement. "I knew that I could never bring
myself to it, so what have I been torturing my-
self for till now? Yesterday, yesterday, when I
went to make that... experiment, yesterday I real-
ised completely that I could never bear to do
it.... Why am I going over it again, then? Why
am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs yes-
terday, I said myself that it was base, loath-
some, vile, vile... the very thought of it made
me feel sick and filled me with horror.
"No, I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Granted,
granted that there is no flaw in all that reason-
ing, that all that I have concluded this last
month is clear as day, true as arithmetic.... My
God! Anyway I couldn't bring myself to it! I
couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Why, why then
am I still...?"
He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as
though surprised at finding himself in this pla-
ce, and went towards the bridge. He was pale,
his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in every
limb, but he seemed suddenly to breathe more
easily. He felt he had cast off that fearful bur-
den that had so long been weighing upon him,
and all at once there was a sense of relief and
peace in his soul. "Lord," he prayed, "show me
my path—I renounce that accursed... dream of
mine."
Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calm-
ly at the Neva, at the glowing red sun setting in
the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness he
was not conscious of fatigue. It was as though
an abscess that had been forming for a month
past in his heart had suddenly broken. Free-
dom, freedom! He was free from that spell, that
sorcery,that obsession!
Later on, when he recalled that time and all
that happened to him during those days, min-
ute by minute, point by point, he was supersti-
tiously impressed by one circumstance, which,
though in itself not very exceptional, always
seemed to him afterwards the predestined turn-
ing-point of his fate. He could never under-
stand and explain to himself why, when he was
tired and worn out, when it would have been
more convenient for him to go home by the
shortest and most direct way, he had returned
by the Hay Market where he had no need to go.
It was obviously and quite unnecessarily out of
his way, though not much so. It is true that it
happened to him dozens of times to return
home without noticing what streets he passed
through. But why, he was always asking him-
self, why had such an important, such a deci-
sive and at the same time such an absolutely
chance meeting happened in the Hay Market
(where he had moreover no reason to go) at the
very hour, the very minute of his life when he
was just in the very mood and in the very cir-
cumstances in which that meeting was able to
exert the gravest and most decisive influence
on his whole destiny? As though it had been
lying in wait for him on purpose!
It was about nine o'clock when he crossed the
Hay Market. At the tables and the barrows, at
the booths and the shops, all the market people
were closing their establishments or clearing
away and packing up their wares and, like their
customers, were going home. Rag pickers and
costermongers of all kinds were crowding
round the taverns in the dirty and stinking
courtyards of the Hay Market. Raskolnikov
particularly liked this place and the neighbour-
ing alleys, when he wandered aimlessly in the
streets. Here his rags did not attract contemp-
tuous attention, and one could walk about in
any attire without scandalising people. At the
corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had
two tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton
handkerchiefs, etc. They, too, had got up to go
home, but were lingering in conversation with
a friend, who had just come up to them. This
friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as everyone
called her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of the
old pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna, whom Ras-
kolnikov had visited the previous day to pawn
his watch and make his experiment.... He al-
ready knew all about Lizaveta and she knew
him a little too. She was a single woman of
about thirty-five, tall, clumsy, timid, submis-
sive and almost idiotic. She was a complete
slave and went in fear and trembling of her
sister, who made her work day and night, and
even beat her. She was standing with a bundle
before the huckster and his wife, listening ear-
nestly and doubtfully. They were talking of
something with special warmth. The moment
Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was over-
come by a strange sensation as it were of in-
tense astonishment, though there was nothing
astonishing about this meeting.
"You could make up your mind for yourself,
Lizaveta Ivanovna," the huckster was saying
aloud. "Come round to-morrow about seven.
They will be here too."
"To-morrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and
thoughtfully, as though unable to make up her
mind.
"Upon my word, what a fright you are in of
Alyona Ivanovna," gabbled the huckster's wife,
a lively little woman. "I look at you, you are
like some little babe. And she is not your own
sister either-nothing but a step-sister and what
a hand she keeps over you!"
"But this time don't say a word to Alyona Iva-
novna," her husband interrupted; "that's my
advice, but come round to us without asking. It
will be worth your while. Later on your sister
herself may have a notion."
"Am I to come?"
"About seven o'clock to-morrow. And they will
be here. You will be able to decide for yourself."
"And we'll have a cup of tea," added his wife.
"All right, I'll come," said Lizaveta, still ponder-
ing, and she began slowly moving away.
Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no mo-
re. He passed softly, unnoticed, trying not to
miss a word. His first amazement was followed
by a thrill of horror, like a shiver running down
his spine. He had learnt, he had suddenly quite
unexpectedly learnt, that the next day at seven
o'clock Lizaveta, the old woman's sister and
only companion, would be away from home
and that therefore at seven o'clock precisely the
old woman would be left alone.
He was only a few steps from his lodging. He
went in like a man condemned to death. He
thought of nothing and was incapable of think-
ing; but he felt suddenly in his whole being that
he had no more freedom of thought, no will,
and that everything was suddenly and irrevo-
cably decided.
Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a
suitable opportunity, he could not reckon on a
more certain step towards the success of the
plan than that which had just presented itself.
In any case, it would have been difficult to find
out beforehand and with certainty, with greater
exactness and less risk, and without dangerous
inquiries and investigations, that next day at a
certain time an old woman, on whose life an
attempt was contemplated, would be at home
and entirely alone.
CHAPTER VI
Later on Raskolnikov happened to find out
why the huckster and his wife had invited Li-
zaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there
was nothing exceptional about it. A family who
had come to the town and been reduced to po-
verty were selling their household goods and
clothes, all women's things. As the things
would have fetched little in the market, they
were looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta's
business. She undertook such jobs and was
frequently employed, as she was very honest
and always fixed a fair price and stuck to it. She
spoke as a rule little and, as we have said al-
ready, she was very submissive and timid.
But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of
late. The traces of superstition remained in him
long after, and were almost ineradicable. And
in all this he was always afterwards disposed to
see something strange and mysterious, as it
were, the presence of some peculiar influences
and coincidences. In the previous winter a stu-
dent he knew called Pokorev, who had left for
Harkov, had chanced in conversation to give
him the address of Alyona Ivanovna, the old
pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn
anything. For a long while he did not go to her,
for he had lessons and managed to get along
somehow. Six weeks ago he had remembered
the address; he had two articles that could be
pawned: his father's old silver watch and a little
gold ring with three red stones, a present from
his sister at parting. He decided to take the
ring. When he found the old woman he had felt
an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first
glance, though he knew nothing special about
her. He got two roubles from her and went into
a miserable little tavern on his way home. He
asked for tea, sat down and sank into deep
thought. A strange idea was pecking at his
brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very
much absorbed him.
Almost beside him at the next table there was
sitting a student, whom he did not know and
had never seen, and with him a young officer.
They had played a game of billiards and began
drinking tea. All at once he heard the student
mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona
Ivanovna and give him her address. This of
itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov; he had
just come from her and here at once he heard
her name. Of course it was a chance, but he
could not shake off a very extraordinary im-
pression, and here someone seemed to be spea-
king expressly for him; the student began tell-
ing his friend various details about Alyona
Ivanovna.
"She is first-rate," he said. "You can always get
money from her. She is as rich as a Jew, she can
give you five thousand roubles at a time and
she is not above taking a pledge for a rouble.
Lots of our fellows have had dealings with her.
But she is an awful old harpy...."
Andhe began describing how spiteful and un-
certain she was, how if you were only a day
late with your interest the pledge was lost; how
she gave a quarter of the value of an article and
took five and even seven percent a month on it
and so on. The student chattered on, saying
that she had a sister Lizaveta, whom the wret-
ched little creature was continually beating,
and kept in complete bondage like a small
child, though Lizaveta was at least six feet high.
"There's a phenomenon for you," cried the stu-
dent and he laughed.
They began talking about Lizaveta. The student
spoke about her with a peculiar relish and was
continually laughing and the officer listened
with great interest and asked him to send Li-
zaveta to do some mending for him. Raskol-
nikov did not miss a word and learned every-
thing about her. Lizaveta was younger than the
old woman and was her half-sister, being the
child of a different mother. She was thirty-five.
She worked day and night for her sister, and
besides doing the cooking and the washing, she
did sewing and worked as a charwoman and
gave her sister all she earned. She did not dare
to accept an order or job of any kind without
her sister's permission. The old woman had
already made her will, and Lizaveta knew of it,
and by this will she would not get a farthing;
nothing but the movables, chairs and so on; all
the money was left to a monastery in the prov-
ince of N——, that prayers might be said for
her in perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower rank
than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouth
in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet
that looked as if they were bent outwards. She
always wore battered goatskin shoes, and was
clean in her person. What the student ex-
pressed most surprise and amusement about
was the fact that Lizaveta was continually with
child.
"But you say she is hideous?" observed the offi-
cer.
"Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a
soldier dressed up, but you know she is not at
all hideous. She has such a good-natured face
and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it is
that lots of people are attracted by her. She is
such a soft, gentle creature, ready to put up
with anything, always willing, willing to do
anything. And her smile is really very sweet."
"You seem to find her attractive yourself,"
laughed the officer.
"From her queerness. No, I'll tell you what. I
could kill that damned old woman and make
off with her money, I assure you, without the
faintest conscience-prick," the student added
with warmth. The officer laughed again while
Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!
"Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,"
the student said hotly. "I was joking of course,
but look here; on one side we have a stupid,
senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old
woman, not simply useless but doing actual
mischief, who has not an idea what she is living
for herself, and who will die in a day or two in
any case. You understand? You understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand," answered the officer,
watching his excited companion attentively.
"Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh
young lives thrown away for want of help and
by thousands, on every side! A hundred thou-
sand good deeds could be done and helped, on
that old woman's money which will be buried
in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps,
might be set on the right path; dozens of fami-
lies saved from destitution, from ruin, from
vice, from the Lock hospitals—and all with her
money. Kill her, take her money and with the
help of it devote oneself to the service of hu-
manity and the good of all. What do you think,
would not one tiny crime be wiped out by
thousands of good deeds? For one life thou-
sands would be saved from corruption and
decay. One death, and a hundred lives in ex-
change—it's simple arithmetic! Besides, what
value has the life of that sickly, stupid, ill-
natured old woman in the balance of existence!
No more than the life of a louse, of a black-
beetle, less in fact because the old woman is
doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of oth-
ers; the other day she bit Lizaveta's finger out
of spite; it almost had to be amputated."
"Of course she does not deserve to live," re-
marked the officer, "but there it is, it's nature."
"Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and
direct nature, and, but for that, we should
drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that,
there would never have been a single great
man. They talk of duty, conscience—I don't
want to say anything against duty and con-
science;—but the point is, what do we mean by
them. Stay, I have another question to ask you.
Listen!"
"No, you stay, I'll ask you a question. Listen!"
"Well?"
"You are talking and speechifying away, but
tell me, would you kill the old woman your-
self?"
"Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of
it.... It's nothing to do with me...."
"But I think, if you would not do it yourself,
there's no justice about it.... Let us have another
game."
Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course,
it was all ordinary youthful talk and thought,
such as he had often heard before in different
forms and on different themes. But why had he
happened to hear such a discussion and such
ideas at the very moment when his own brain
was just conceiving... the very same ideas? And
why, just at the moment when he had brought
away the embryo of his idea from the old wo-
man had he dropped at once upon a conversa-
tion about her? This coincidence always see-
med strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern
had an immense influence on him in his later
action; as though there had really been in it
something preordained, some guiding hint....
On returning from the Hay Market he flung
himself on the sofa and sat for a whole hour
without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had
no candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him
to light up. He could never recollect whether he
had been thinking about anything at that time.
At last he was conscious of his former fever and
shivering, and he realised with relief that he
could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden
sleep came over him, as it were crushing him.
He slept an extraordinarily long time and with-
out dreaming. Nastasya, coming into his room
at ten o'clock the next morning, had difficulty
in rousing him. She brought him in tea and
bread. The tea was again the second brew and
again in her own tea-pot.
"My goodness, how he sleeps!" she cried indig-
nantly. "And he is always asleep."
He got up with an effort. His head ached, he
stood up, took a turn in his garret and sank
back on the sofa again.
"Going to sleep again," cried Nastasya. "Are
you ill, eh?"
He made no reply.
"Do you want some tea?"
"Afterwards," he said with an effort, closing his
eyes again and turning to the wall.
Nastasya stood over him.
"Perhaps he really is ill," she said, turned and
went out. She came in again at two o'clock with
soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood
untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended
and began wrathfully rousing him.
"Why are you lying like a log?" she shouted,
looking at him with repulsion.
He got up, and sat down again, but said noth-
ing and stared at the floor.
"Are you ill or not?" asked Nastasya and again
received no answer. "You'd better go out and
get a breath of air," she said after a pause. "Will
you eat it or not?"
"Afterwards," he said weakly. "You can go."
And he motioned her out.
She remained a little longer, looked at him with
compassion and went out.
A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes
and looked for a long while at the tea and the
soup. Then he took the bread, took up a spoon
and began to eat.
He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without
appetite, as it were mechanically. His head
ached less. After his meal he stretched himself
on the sofa again, but now he could not sleep;
he lay without stirring, with his face in the pil-
low. He was haunted by day-dreamsand such
strange day-dreams; in one, that kept recurring,
he fancied that he was in Africa, in Egypt, in
some sort of oasis. The caravan was resting, the
camels were peacefully lying down; the palms
stood all around in a complete circle; all the
party were at dinner. But he was drinking wa-
ter from a spring which flowed gurgling close
by. And it was so cool, it was wonderful, won-
derful, blue, cold water running among the
parti-coloured stones and over the clean sand
which glistened here and there like gold....
Suddenly he heard a clock strike. He started,
roused himself, raised his head, looked out of
the window, and seeing how late it was, sud-
denly jumped up wide awake as though some-
one had pulled him off the sofa. He crept on
tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and be-
gan listening on the staircase. His heart beat
terribly. But all was quiet on the stairs as if eve-
ryone was asleep.... It seemed to him strange
and monstrous that he could have slept in such
forgetfulness from the previous day and had
done nothing, had prepared nothing yet.... And
meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his
drowsiness and stupefaction were followed by
an extraordinary, feverish, as it were distracted
haste. But the preparations to be made were
few. He concentrated all his energies on think-
ing of everything and forgetting nothing; and
his heart kept beating and thumping so that he
could hardly breathe. First he had to make a
noose and sew it into his overcoat—a work of a
moment. He rummaged under his pillow and
picked out amongst the linen stuffed away un-
der it, a worn out, old unwashed shirt. From its
rags he tore a long strip, a couple of inches wi-
de and about sixteen inches long. He folded
this strip in two, took off his wide, strong
summer overcoat of some stout cotton material
(his only outer garment) and began sewing the
two ends of the rag on the inside, under the left
armhole. His hands shook as he sewed, but he
did it successfully so that nothing showed out-
side when he put the coat on again. The needle
and thread he had got ready long before and
they lay on his table in a piece of paper. As for
the noose, it was a very ingenious device of his
own; the noose was intended for the axe. It was
impossible for him to carry the axe through the
street in his hands. And if hidden under his
coat he would still have had to support it with
his hand, which would have been noticeable.
Now he had only to put the head of the axe in
the noose, and it would hang quietly under his
arm on the inside. Putting his hand in his coat
pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all
the way, so that it did not swing; and as the
coat was very full, a regular sack in fact, it
could not be seen from outside that he was
holding something with the hand that was in
the pocket. This noose, too, he had designed a
fortnight before.
When he had finished with this, he thrust his
hand into a little opening between his sofa and
the floor, fumbled in the left corner and drew
out the pledge, which he had got ready long
before and hidden there. This pledge was,
however, only a smoothly planed piece of
wood the size and thickness of a silver cigarette
case. He picked up this piece of wood in one of
his wanderings in a courtyard where there was
some sort of a workshop. Afterwards he had
added to the wood a thin smooth piece of iron,
which he had also picked up at the same time
in the street. Putting the iron which was a little
the smaller on the piece of wood, he fastened
them very firmly, crossing and re-crossing the
thread round them; then wrapped them care-
fully and daintily in clean white paper and tied
up the parcel so that it would be very difficult
to untie it. This was in order to divert the atten-
tion of the old woman for a time, while she was
trying to undo the knot, and so to gain a mo-
ment. The iron strip was added to give weight,
so that the woman might not guess the first
minute that the "thing" was made of wood. All
this had been stored by him beforehand under
the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out
when he heard someone suddenly about in the
yard.
"It struck six long ago."
"Long ago! My God!"
He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his
hat and began to descend his thirteen steps
cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had still
the most important thing to do—to steal the axe
from the kitchen. That the deed must be done
with an axe he had decided long ago. He had
also a pocket pruning-knife, but he could not
rely on the knife and still less on his own
strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We
may note in passing, one peculiarity in regard
to all the final resolutions taken by him in the
matter; they had one strange characteristic: the
more final they were, the more hideous and the
more absurd they at once became in his eyes. In
spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he
never for a single instant all that time could
believe in the carrying out of his plans.
And, indeed, if it had ever happened that eve-
rything to the least point could have been con-
sidered and finally settled, and no uncertainty
of any kind had remained, he would, it seems,
have renounced it all as something absurd,
monstrous and impossible. But a whole mass of
unsettled points and uncertainties remained.
As for getting the axe, that trifling business cost
him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier.
Nastasya was continually out of the house, es-
pecially in the evenings; she would run in to
the neighbours or to a shop, and always left the
door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady was
always scolding her about. And so, when the
time came, he would only have to go quietly
into the kitchen and to take the axe, and an
hour later (when everything was over) go in
and put it back again. But these were doubtful
points. Supposing he returned an hour later to
put it back, and Nastasya had come back and
was on the spot. He would of course have to go
by and wait till she went out again. But suppos-
ing she were in the meantime to miss the axe,
look for it, make an outcry—that would mean
suspicion or at least grounds for suspicion.
But those were all trifles which he had not even
begun to consider, and indeed he had no time.
He was thinking of the chief point, and put off
trifling details, until he could believe in it all. But
that seemed utterly unattainable. So it seemed
to himself at least. He could not imagine, for
instance, that he would sometime leave off
thinking, get up and simply go there.... Even
his late experiment (i.e. his visit with the object
of a final survey of the place) was simply an
attempt at an experiment, far from being the
real thing, as though one should say "come, let
us go and try it—why dream about it!"—and at
once he had broken down and had run away
cursing, in a frenzy with himself. Meanwhile it
would seem, as regards the moral question,
that his analysis was complete; his casuistry
had become keen as a razor, and he could not
find rational objections in himself. But in the
last resort he simply ceased to believe in him-
self, and doggedly, slavishly sought arguments
in all directions, fumbling for them, as though
someone were forcing and drawing him to it.
At first—long before indeed—he had been
much occupied with one question; why almost
all crimes are so badly concealed and so easily
detected, and why almost all criminals leave
such obvious traces? He had come gradually to
many different and curious conclusions, and in
his opinion the chief reason lay not so much in
the material impossibility of concealing the
crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every
criminal is subject to a failure of will and rea-
soning power by a childish and phenomenal
heedlessness, at the very instant when pru-
dence and caution are most essential. It was his
conviction that this eclipse of reason and failure
of will power attacked a man like a disease,
developed gradually and reached its highest
point just before theperpetration of the crime,
continued with equal violence at the moment of
the crime and for longer or shorter time after,
according to the individual case, and then pas-
sed off like any other disease. The question
whether the disease gives rise to the crime, or
whether the crime from its own peculiar nature
is always accompanied by something of the
nature of disease, he did not yet feel able to
decide.
When he reached these conclusions, he decided
that in his own case there could not be such a
morbid reaction, that his reason and will would
remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out
his design, for the simple reason that his design
was "not a crime...." We will omit all the proc-
ess by means of which he arrived at this last
conclusion; we have run too far ahead al-
ready.... We may add only that the practical,
purely material difficulties of the affair occu-
pied a secondary position in his mind. "One has
but to keep all one's will-power and reason to
deal with them, and they will all be overcome
at the time when once one has familiarised one-
self with the minutest details of the business...."
But this preparation had never been begun. His
final decisions were what he came to trust least,
and when the hour struck, it all came to pass
quite differently, as it were accidentally and
unexpectedly.
One trifling circumstance upset his calcula-
tions, before he had even left the staircase.
When he reached the landlady's kitchen, the
door of which was open as usual, he glanced
cautiously in to see whether, in Nastasya's ab-
sence, the landlady herself was there, or if not,
whether the door to her own room was closed,
so that she might not peep out when he went in
for the axe. But what was his amazement when
he suddenly saw that Nastasya was not only at
home in the kitchen, but was occupied there,
taking linen out of a basket and hanging it on a
line. Seeing him, she left off hanging the clot-
hes, turned to him and stared at him all the
time he was passing. He turned away his eyes,
and walked past as though he noticed nothing.
But it was the end of everything; he had not the
axe! He was overwhelmed.
"What made me think," he reflected, as he went
under the gateway, "what made me think that
she would be sure not to be at home at that
moment! Why, why, why did I assume this so
certainly?"
He was crushed and even humiliated. He could
have laughed at himself in his anger.... A dull
animal rage boiled within him.
He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into
the street, to go a walk for appearance' sake
was revolting; to go back to his room, even mo-
re revolting. "And what a chance I have lost for
ever!" he muttered, standing aimlessly in the
gateway, just opposite the porter's little dark
room, which was also open. Suddenly he star-
ted. From the porter's room, two paces away
from him, something shining under the bench
to the right caught his eye.... He looked about
him—nobody. He approached the room on
tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a
faint voice called the porter. "Yes, not at home!
Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the
door is wide open." He dashed to the axe (it
was an axe) and pulled it out from under the
bench, where it lay between two chunks of
wood; at once, before going out, he made it fast
in the noose, he thrust both hands into his poc-
kets and went out of the room; no one had no-
ticed him! "When reason fails, the devil helps!"
he thought with a strange grin. This chance
raised his spirits extraordinarily.
He walked along quietly and sedately, without
hurry, to avoid awakening suspicion. He scar-
cely looked at the passers-by, tried to escape
looking at their faces at all, and to be as little
noticeable as possible. Suddenly he thought of
his hat. "Good heavens! I had the money the
day before yesterday and did not get a cap to
wear instead!" A curse rose from the bottom of
his soul.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a
shop, he saw by a clock on the wall that it was
ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste
and at the same time to go someway round, so
as to approach the house from the other side....
When he had happened to imagine all this be-
forehand, he had sometimes thought that he
would be very much afraid. But he was not
very much afraid now, was not afraid at all,
indeed. His mind was even occupied by irrele-
vant matters, but by nothing for long. As he
passed the Yusupov garden, he was deeply
absorbed in considering the building of great
fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the
atmosphere in all the squares. By degrees he
passed to the conviction that if the summer
garden were extended to the field of Mars, and
perhaps joined to the garden of the Mi-
hailovsky Palace, it would be a splendid thing
and a great benefit to the town. Then he was
interested by the question why in all great
towns men are not simply driven by necessity,
but in some peculiar way inclined to live in
those parts of the town where there are no gar-
dens nor fountains; where there is most dirt
and smell and all sorts of nastiness. Then his
own walks through the Hay Market came back
to his mind, and for a moment he waked up to
reality. "What nonsense!" he thought, "better
think of nothing at all!"
"So probably men led to execution clutch men-
tally at every object that meets them on the
way," flashed through his mind, but simply
flashed, like lightning; he made haste to dis-
miss this thought.... And by now he was near;
here was the house, here was the gate. Sud-
denly a clock somewhere struck once. "What!
can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it must be
fast!"
Luckily for him, everything went well again at
the gates. At that very moment, as though ex-
pressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay
had just driven in at the gate, completely scree-
ning him as he passed under the gateway, and
the waggon had scarcely had time to drive
through into the yard, before he had slipped in
a flash to the right. On the other side of the
waggon he could hear shouting and quarrel-
ling; but no one noticed him and no one met
him. Many windows looking into that huge
quadrangular yard were open at that moment,
but he did not raise his head—he had not the
strength to. The staircase leading to the old
woman's room was close by, just on the right of
the gateway. He was already on the stairs....
Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his
throbbing heart, and once more feeling for the
axe and setting it straight, he began softly and
cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every
minute. But the stairs, too, were quite deserted;
all the doors were shut; he met no one. One flat
indeed on the first floor was wide open and
painters were at work in it, but they did not
glance at him. He stood still, thought a minute
and went on. "Of course it would be better if
they had not been here, but... it's two storeys
above them."
And there was the fourth storey, here was the
door, here was the flat opposite, the empty one.
The flat underneath the old woman's was ap-
parently empty also; the visiting card nailed on
the door had been torn off—they had gone
away!... He was out of breath. For one instant
the thought floated through his mind "Shall I
go back?" But he made no answer and began
listening at the old woman's door, a dead si-
lence. Then he listened again on the staircase,
listened long and intently... then looked about
him for the last time, pulled himself together,
drew himself up, and once more tried the axe
in the noose. "Am I very pale?" he wondered.
"Am I not evidently agitated? She is mistrust-
ful.... Had I better wait a little longer... till my
heart leaves off thumping?"
But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary,
as though to spite him, it throbbed more and
more violently. He could stand it no longer, he
slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang.
Half a minute later he rang again, more loudly.
No answer. To go on ringing was useless and
out of place. The old womanwas, of course, at
home, but she was suspicious and alone. He
had some knowledge of her habits... and once
more he put his ear to the door. Either his sen-
ses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to
suppose), or the sound was really very distinct.
Anyway, he suddenly heard something like the
cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the
rustle of a skirt at the very door. Someone was
standing stealthily close to the lock and just as
he was doing on the outside was secretly listen-
ing within, and seemed to have her ear to the
door.... He moved a little on purpose and mut-
tered something aloud that he might not have
the appearance of hiding, then rang a third ti-
me, but quietly, soberly, and without impa-
tience, Recalling it afterwards, that moment
stood out in his mind vividly, distinctly, for
ever; he could not make out how he had had
such cunning, for his mind was as it were
clouded at moments and he was almost uncon-
scious of his body.... An instant later he heard
the latch unfastened.
CHAPTER VII
The door was as before opened a tiny crack,
and again two sharp and suspicious eyes stared
at him out of the darkness. Then Raskolnikov
lost his head and nearly made a great mistake.
Fearing the old woman would be frightened by
their being alone, and not hoping that the sight
of him would disarm her suspicions, he took
hold of the door and drew it towards him to
prevent the old woman from attempting to
shut it again. Seeing this she did not pull the
door back, but she did not let go the handle so
that he almost dragged her out with it on to the
stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the
doorway not allowing him to pass, he ad-
vanced straight upon her. She stepped back in
alarm, tried to say something, but seemed un-
able to speak and stared with open eyes at him.
"Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna," he began,
trying to speak easily, but his voice would not
obey him, it broke and shook. "I have come... I
have brought something... but we'd better come
in... to the light...."
And leaving her, he passed straight into the
room uninvited. The old woman ran after him;
her tongue was unloosed.
"Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do
you want?"
"Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Ras-
kolnikov... here, I brought you the pledge I
promised the other day..." And he held out the
pledge.
The old woman glanced for a moment at the
pledge, but at once stared in the eyes of her
uninvited visitor. She looked intently, mali-
ciously and mistrustfully. A minute passed; he
even fancied something like a sneer in her eyes,
as though she had already guessed everything.
He felt that he was losing his head, that he was
almost frightened, so frightened that if she we-
re to look like that and not say a word for an-
other half minute, he thought he would have
run away from her.
"Why do you look at me as though you did not
know me?" he said suddenly, also with malice.
"Take it if you like, if not I'll go elsewhere, I am
in a hurry."
He had not even thought of saying this, but it
was suddenly said of itself. The old woman
recovered herself, and her visitor's resolute
tone evidently restored her confidence.
"But why, my good sir, all of a minute.... What
is it?" she asked, looking at the pledge.
"The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time,
you know."
She held out her hand.
"But how pale you are, to be sure... and your
hands are trembling too? Have you been bath-
ing, or what?"
"Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help
getting pale... if you've nothing to eat," he ad-
ded, with difficulty articulating the words.
His strength was failing him again. But his an-
swer sounded like the truth; the old woman
took the pledge.
"What is it?" she asked once more, scanning
Raskolnikov intently, and weighing the pledge
in her hand.
"A thing... cigarette case.... Silver.... Look at it."
"It does not seem somehow like silver.... How
he has wrapped it up!"
Trying to untie the string and turning to the
window, to the light (all her windows were
shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him
altogether for some seconds and stood with her
back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed
the axe from the noose, but did not yet take it
out altogether, simply holding it in his right
hand under the coat. His hands were fearfully
weak, he felt them every moment growing mo-
re numb and more wooden. He was afraid he
would let the axe slip and fall.... A sudden gid-
diness came over him.
"But what has he tied it up like this for?" the old
woman cried with vexation and moved to-
wards him.
He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled
the axe quite out, swung it with both arms,
scarcely conscious of himself, and almost with-
out effort, almost mechanically, brought the
blunt side down on her head. He seemed not to
use his own strength in this. But as soon as he
had once brought the axe down, his strength
returned to him.
The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her
thin, light hair, streaked with grey, thickly
smeared with grease, was plaited in a rat's tail
and fastened by a broken horn comb which
stood out on the nape of her neck. As she was
so short, the blow fell on the very top of her
skull. She cried out, but very faintly, and sud-
denly sank all of a heap on the floor, raising her
hands to her head. In one hand she still held
"the pledge." Then he dealt her another and
another blow with the blunt side and on the
same spot. The blood gushed as from an over-
turned glass, the body fell back. He stepped
back, let it fall, and at once bent over her face;
she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting
out of their sockets, the brow and the whole
face were drawn and contorted convulsively.
He laid the axe on the ground near the dead
body and felt at once in her pocket (trying to
avoid the streaming body)—the same right-
hand pocket from which she had taken the key
on his last visit. He was in full possession of his
faculties, free from confusion or giddiness, but
his hands were still trembling. He remembered
afterwards that he had been particularly col-
lected and careful, trying all the time not to get
smeared with blood.... He pulled out the keys
at once, they were all, as before, in one bunch
on a steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom
with them. It was a very small room with a
whole shrine of holy images. Against the other
wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered
with a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a
third wall was a chest of drawers. Strange to
say, so soon as he began to fit the keys into the
chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a con-
vulsive shudder passed over him. He suddenly
felt tempted again to give it all up and go away.
But that was only for an instant; it was too late
to go back. He positively smiled at himself,
when suddenly another terrifying idea oc-
curred to his mind. He suddenly fancied that
the old woman might be still alive and might
recover her senses. Leaving the keys in the
chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up the
axe and lifted it once more over the old woman,
but did not bring it down. There was no doubt
that she was dead. Bending down and examin-
ing her again more closely, he saw clearly that
the skull was broken and even battered in on
one side. He was about to feel it with his finger,
but drew back his hand and indeed it was evi-
dent without that. Meanwhile there was a per-
fect pool of blood. All at once he noticed a
string on her neck; he tugged at it, but the
string was strong and did not snap and besides,
it was soaked with blood. He tried to pull it out
from the front of the dress, but something held
it and prevented its coming. In his impatience
he raised the axe again to cut the string from
above on the body, but did not dare, and with
difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the
blood, after two minutes' hurried effort, he cut
the string and took it off without touching the
body with the axe; he was not mistaken—it was
a purse. On the string weretwo crosses, one of
Cyprus wood and one of copper, and an image
in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy
chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring.
The purse was stuffed very full; Raskolnikov
thrust it in his pocket without looking at it,
flung the crosses on the old woman's body and
rushed back into the bedroom, this time taking
the axe with him.
He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys,
and began trying them again. But he was un-
successful. They would not fit in the locks. It
was not so much that his hands were shaking,
but that he kept making mistakes; though he
saw for instance that a key was not the right
one and would not fit, still he tried to put it in.
Suddenly he remembered and realised that the
big key with the deep notches, which was han-
ging there with the small keys could not possi-
bly belong to the chest of drawers (on his last
visit this had struck him), but to some strong
box, and that everything perhaps was hidden
in that box. He left the chest of drawers, and at
once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old
women usually keep boxes under their beds.
And so it was; there was a good-sized box un-
der the bed, at least a yard in length, with an
arched lid covered with red leather and stud-
ded with steel nails. The notched key fitted at
once and unlocked it. At the top, under a white
sheet, was a coat of red brocade lined with
hareskin; under it was a silk dress, then a shawl
and it seemed as though there was nothing
below but clothes. The first thing he did was to
wipe his blood-stained hands on the red bro-
cade. "It's red, and on red blood will be less
noticeable," the thought passed through his
mind; then he suddenly came to himself. "Good
God, am I going out of my senses?" he thought
with terror.
But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a
gold watch slipped from under the fur coat. He
made haste to turn them all over. There turned
out to be various articles made of gold among
the clothes—probably all pledges, unredeemed
or waiting to be redeemed—bracelets, chains,
ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in
cases, others simply wrapped in newspaper,
carefully and exactly folded, and tied round
with tape. Without any delay, he began filling
up the pockets of his trousers and overcoat wit-
hout examining or undoing the parcels and
cases; but he had not time to take many....
He suddenly heard steps in the room where the
old woman lay. He stopped short and was still
as death. But all was quiet, so it must have been
his fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint
cry, as though someone had uttered a low bro-
ken moan. Then again dead silence for a min-
ute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the
box and waited holding his breath. Suddenly
he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of the
bedroom.
In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a
big bundle in her arms. She was gazing in stu-
pefaction at her murdered sister, white as a
sheet and seeming not to have the strength to
cry out. Seeing him run out of the bedroom, she
began faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a
shudder ran down her face; she lifted her hand,
opened her mouth, but still did not scream. She
began slowly backing away from him into the
corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but
still uttered no sound, as though she could not
get breath to scream. He rushed at her with the
axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as one sees
babies' mouths, when they begin to be fright-
ened, stare intently at what frightens them and
are on the point of screaming. And this hapless
Lizaveta was so simple and had been so thor-
oughly crushed and scared that she did not
even raise a hand to guard her face, though that
was the most necessary and natural action at
the moment, for the axe was raised over her
face. She only put up her empty left hand, but
not to her face, slowly holding it out before her
as though motioning him away. The axe fell
with the sharp edge just on the skull and split
at one blow all the top of the head. She fell hea-
vily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his
head, snatching up her bundle, dropped it
again and ran into the entry.
Fear gained more and more mastery over him,
especially after this second, quite unexpected
murder. He longed to run away from the place
as fast as possible. And if at that moment he
had been capable of seeing and reasoning more
correctly, if he had been able to realise all the
difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the
hideousness and the absurdity of it, if he could
have understood how many obstacles and, per-
haps, crimes he had still to overcome or to
commit, to get out of that place and to make his
way home, it is very possible that he would
have flung up everything, and would have go-
ne to give himself up, and not from fear, but
from simple horror and loathing of what he
had done. The feeling of loathing especially
surged up within him and grew stronger every
minute. He would not now have gone to the
box or even into the room for anything in the
world.
But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had
begun by degrees to take possession of him; at
moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot
what was of importance, and caught at trifles.
Glancing, however, into the kitchen and seeing
a bucket half full of water on a bench, he be-
thought him of washing his hands and the axe.
His hands were sticky with blood. He dropped
the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a
piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the
window, and began washing his hands in the
bucket. When they were clean, he took out the
axe, washed the blade and spent a long time,
about three minutes, washing the wood where
there were spots of blood rubbing them with
soap. Then he wiped it all with some linen that
was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and
then he was a long while attentively examining
the axe at the window. There was no trace left
on it, only the wood was still damp. He care-
fully hung the axe in the noose under his coat.
Then as far as was possible, in the dim light in
the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat, his
trousers and his boots. At the first glance there
seemed to be nothing but stains on the boots.
He wetted the rag and rubbed the boots. But he
knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there
might be something quite noticeable that he
was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the
room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas
rose in his mind—the idea that he was mad and
that at that moment he was incapable of rea-
soning, of protecting himself, that he ought
perhaps to be doing something utterly different
from what he was now doing. "Good God!" he
muttered "I must fly, fly," and he rushed into
the entry. But here a shock of terror awaited
him such as he had never known before.
He stood and gazed and could not believe his
eyes: the door, the outer door from the stairs, at
which he had not long before waited and rung,
was standing unfastened and at least six inches
open. No lock, no bolt, all the time, all that ti-
me! The old woman had not shut it after him
perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why,
he had seen Lizaveta afterwards! And how
could he, how could he have failed to reflect
that she must have come in somehow! She
could not have come through the wall!
He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.
"But no, the wrong thing again! I must get
away, get away...."
He unfastened the latch, opened the door and
began listening on the staircase.
He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it
might be in the gateway, two voices were loud-
ly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scold-
ing. "What are they about?" He waited pa-
tiently. At last all was still, as though suddenly
cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to
go out, but suddenly, on the floor below, a door
was noisily opened and someone began going
downstairs humming a tune. "How is it they all
make such a noise?" flashed through his mind.
Once more he closed the door and waited.At
last all was still, not a soul stirring. He was just
taking a step towards the stairs when he heard
fresh footsteps.
The steps sounded very far off, at the very bot-
tom of the stairs, but he remembered quite
clearly and distinctly that from the first sound
he began for some reason to suspect that this
was someone coming there, to the fourth floor,
to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds so-
mehow peculiar, significant? The steps were
heavy, even and unhurried. Now he had passed
the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it
was growing more and more distinct! He could
hear his heavy breathing. And now the third
storey had been reached. Coming here! And it
seemed to him all at once that he was turned to
stone, that it was like a dream in which one is
being pursued, nearly caught and will be ki-
lled, and is rooted to the spot and cannot even
move one's arms.
At last when the unknown was mounting to the
fourth floor, he suddenly started, and suc-
ceeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into
the flat and closing the door behind him. Then
he took the hook and softly, noiselessly, fixed it
in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had
done this, he crouched holding his breath, by
the door. The unknown visitor was by now also
at the door. They were now standing opposite
one another, as he had just before been stand-
ing with the old woman, when the door di-
vided them and he was listening.
The visitor panted several times. "He must be a
big, fat man," thought Raskolnikov, squeezing
the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream in-
deed. The visitor took hold of the bell and rang
it loudly.
As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov
seemed to be aware of something moving in
the room. For some seconds he listened quite
seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and
suddenly tugged violently and impatiently at
the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in
horror at the hook shaking in its fastening, and
in blank terror expected every minute that the
fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did
seem possible, so violently was he shaking it.
He was tempted to hold the fastening, but he
might be aware of it. A giddiness came over
him again. "I shall fall down!" flashed through
his mind, but the unknown began to speak and
he recovered himself at once.
"What's up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-
damn them!" he bawled in a thick voice, "Hey,
Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanov-
na, hey, my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn
them! Are they asleep or what?"
And again, enraged, he tugged with all his
might a dozen times at the bell. He must cer-
tainly be a man of authority and an intimate
acquaintance.
At this moment light hurried steps were heard
not far off, on the stairs. Someone else was ap-
proaching. Raskolnikov had not heard them at
first.
"You don't say there's no one at home," the
new-comer cried in a cheerful, ringing voice,
addressing the first visitor, who still went on
pulling the bell. "Good evening, Koch."
"From his voice he must be quite young,"
thought Raskolnikov.
"Who the devil can tell? I've almost broken the
lock," answered Koch. "But how do you come
to know me?
"Why! The day before yesterday I beat you
three times running at billiards at Gambrinus'."
"Oh!"
"So they are not at home? That's queer. It's aw-
fully stupid though. Where could the old wo-
man have gone? I've come on business."
"Yes; and I have business with her, too."
"Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose,
Aie—aie! And I was hoping to get some mo-
ney!" cried the young man.
"We must give it up, of course, but what did
she fix this time for? The old witch fixed the
time for me to come herself. It's out of my way.
And where the devil she can have got to, I can't
make out. She sits here from year's end to
year's end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet
here all of a sudden she is out for a walk!"
"Hadn't we better ask the porter?"
"What?"
"Where she's gone and when she'll be back."
"Hm.... Damn it all!... We might ask.... But you
know she never does go anywhere."
And he once more tugged at the door-handle.
"Damn it all. There's nothing to be done, we
must go!"
"Stay!" cried the young man suddenly. "Do you
see how the door shakes if you pull it?"
"Well?"
"That shows it's not locked, but fastened with
the hook! Do you hear how the hook clanks?"
"Well?"
"Why, don't you see? That proves that one of
them is at home. If they were all out, they
would have locked the door from the outside
with the key and not with the hook from inside.
There, do you hear how the hook is clanking?
To fasten the hook on the inside they must be at
home, don't you see. So there they are sitting
inside and don't open the door!"
"Well! And so they must be!" cried Koch, aston-
ished. "What are they about in there?" And he
began furiously shaking the door.
"Stay!" cried the young man again. "Don't pull
at it! There must be something wrong.... Here,
you've been ringing and pulling at the door
and still they don't open! So either they've both
fainted or..."
"What?"
"I tell you what. Let's go fetch the porter, let
him wake them up."
"All right."
Both were going down.
"Stay. You stop here while I run down for the
porter."
"What for?"
"Well, you'd better."
"All right."
"I'm studying the law you see! It's evident, e-vi-
dent there's something wrong here!" the young
man cried hotly, and he ran downstairs.
Koch remained. Once more he softly touched
the bell which gave one tinkle, then gently, as
though reflecting and looking about him, began
touching the door-handle pulling it and letting
it go to make sure once more that it was only
fastened by the hook. Then puffing and panting
he bent down and began looking at the key-
hole: but the key was in the lock on the inside
and so nothing could be seen.
Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the
axe. He was in a sort of delirium. He was even
making ready to fight when they should come
in. While they were knocking and talking to-
gether, the idea several times occurred to him
to end it all at once and shout to them through
the door. Now and then he was tempted to
swear at them, to jeer at them, while they could
not open the door! "Only make haste!" was the
thought that flashed through his mind.
"But what the devil is he about?..." Time was
passing, one minute, and another—no one ca-
me. Koch began to be restless.
"What the devil?" he cried suddenly and in im-
patience deserting his sentry duty, he, too,
went down, hurrying and thumping with his
heavy boots on the stairs. The steps died away.
"Good heavens! What am I to do?"
Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the
door—there was no sound. Abruptly, without
any thought at all, he went out, closing the
door as thoroughly as he could, and went
downstairs.
He had gone down three flights when he sud-
denly heard a loud voice below—where could
he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just
going back to the flat.
"Hey there! Catch the brute!"
Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting,
and rather fell than ran down the stairs, bawl-
ing at the top of his voice.
"Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!"
The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds
came from the yard; all was still. But at the sa-
me instant several men talking loud and fast
began noisily mounting the stairs. There were
three or four of them. He distinguished the rin-
ging voice of the young man. "They!"
Filled with despair he went straight to meet
them, feeling "come what must!" If they stop-
ped him—all was lost; if they let him pass—all
was lost too; they would remember him. They
were approaching; they were only a flight from
him—and suddenly deliverance! A few steps
from him on the right, there was an empty flat
with the door wide open, the flat on the second
floor where the painters had been at work, and
which, as though for his benefit, they had just
left. It was they, no doubt, who had just run
down, shouting. The floorhad only just been
painted, in the middle of the room stood a pail
and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In
one instant he had whisked in at the open door
and hidden behind the wall and only in the
nick of time; they had already reached the land-
ing. Then they turned and went on up to the
fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, went
out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs.
No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway.
He passed quickly through the gateway and
turned to the left in the street.
He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that
moment they were at the flat, that they were
greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as the
door had just been fastened, that by now they
were looking at the bodies, that before another
minute had passed they would guess and com-
pletely realise that the murderer had just been
there, and had succeeded in hiding somewhere,
slipping by them and escaping. They would
guess most likely that he had been in the empty
flat, while they were going upstairs. And
meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace
much, though the next turning was still nearly
a hundred yards away. "Should he slip through
some gateway and wait somewhere in an un-
known street? No, hopeless! Should he fling
away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless,
hopeless!"
At last he reached the turning. He turned down
it more dead than alive. Here he was half way
to safety, and he understood it; it was less risky
because there was a great crowd of people, and
he was lost in it like a grain of sand. But all he
had suffered had so weakened him that he
could scarcely move. Perspiration ran down
him in drops, his neck was all wet. "My word,
he has been going it!" someone shouted at him
when he came out on the canal bank.
He was only dimly conscious of himself now,
and the farther he went the worse it was. He
remembered however, that on coming out on to
the canal bank, he was alarmed at finding few
people there and so being more conspicuous,
and he had thought of turning back. Though he
was almost falling from fatigue, he went a long
way round so as to get home from quite a dif-
ferent direction.
He was not fully conscious when he passed
through the gateway of his house! he was al-
ready on the staircase before he recollected the
axe. And yet he had a very grave problem befo-
re him, to put it back and to escape observation
as far as possible in doing so. He was of course
incapable of reflecting that it might perhaps be
far better not to restore the axe at all, but to
drop it later on in somebody's yard. But it all
happened fortunately, the door of the porter's
room was closed but not locked, so that it see-
med most likely that the porter was at home.
But he had so completely lost all power of re-
flection that he walked straight to the door and
opened it. If the porter had asked him, "What
do you want?" he would perhaps have simply
handed him the axe. But again the porter was
not at home, and he succeeded in putting the
axe back under the bench, and even covering it
with the chunk of wood as before. He met no
one, not a soul, afterwards on the way to his
room; the landlady's door was shut. When he
was in his room, he flung himself on the sofa
just as he was—he did not sleep, but sank into
blank forgetfulness. If anyone had come into
his room then, he would have jumped up at
once and screamed. Scraps and shreds of
thoughts were simply swarming in his brain,
but he could not catch at one, he could not rest
on one, in spite of all his efforts....
PART II
CHAPTER I
So he lay a very long while. Now and then he
seemed to wake up, and at such moments he
noticed that it was far into the night, but it did
not occur to him to get up. At last he noticed
that it was beginning to get light. He was lying
on his back, still dazed from his recent oblivion.
Fearful, despairing cries rose shrilly from the
street, sounds which he heard every night, in-
deed, under his window after two o'clock. They
woke him up now.
"Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the
taverns," he thought, "it's past two o'clock," and
at once he leaped up, as though someone had
pulled him from the sofa.
"What! Past two o'clock!"
He sat down on the sofa—and instantly reco-
llected everything! All at once, in one flash, he
recollected everything.
For the first moment he thought he was going
mad. A dreadful chill came over him; but the
chill was from the fever that had begun long
before in his sleep. Now he was suddenly taken
with violent shivering, so that his teeth chatte-
red and all his limbs were shaking. He opened
the door and began listening—everything in
the house was asleep. With amazement he ga-
zed at himself and everything in the room
around him, wondering how he could have
come in the night before without fastening the
door, and have flung himself on the sofa wit-
hout undressing, without even taking his hat
off. It had fallen off and was lying on the floor
near his pillow.
"If anyone had come in, what would he have
thought? That I'm drunk but..."
He rushed to the window. There was light
enough, and he began hurriedly looking him-
self all over from head to foot, all his clothes;
were there no traces? But there was no doing it
like that; shivering with cold, he began taking
off everything and looking over again. He tur-
ned everything over to the last threads and
rags, and mistrusting himself, went through his
search three times.
But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except
in one place, where some thick drops of con-
gealed blood were clinging to the frayed edge
of his trousers. He picked up a big claspknife
and cut off the frayed threads. There seemed to
be nothing more.
Suddenly he remembered that the purse and
the things he had taken out of the old woman's
box were still in his pockets! He had not
thought till then of taking them out and hiding
them! He had not even thought of them while
he was examining his clothes! What next? Ins-
tantly he rushed to take them out and fling
them on the table. When he had pulled out eve-
rything, and turned the pocket inside out to be
sure there was nothing left, he carried the who-
le heap to the corner. The paper had come off
the bottom of the wall and hung there in tatters.
He began stuffing all the things into the hole
under the paper: "They're in! All out of sight,
and the purse too!" he thought gleefully, get-
ting up and gazing blankly at the hole which
bulged out more than ever. Suddenly he shud-
dered all over with horror; "My God!" he whis-
pered in despair: "what's the matter with me? Is
that hidden? Is that the way to hide things?"
He had not reckoned on having trinkets to
hide. He had only thought of money, and so
had not prepared a hiding-place.
"But now, now, what am I glad of?" he thought,
"Is that hiding things? My reason's deserting
me—simply!"
He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was
at once shaken by another unbearable fit of
shivering. Mechanically he drew from a chair
beside him his old student's winter coat, which
was still warm though almost in rags, covered
himself up with it and once more sank into
drowsiness and delirium. He lost conscious-
ness.
Not more than five minutes had passed when
he jumped up a second time, and at once poun-
ced in a frenzy on his clothes again.
"How could I go to sleep again with nothing
done? Yes, yes; I have not taken the loop off the
armhole! I forgot it, forgot a thing like that!
Such a piece of evidence!"
He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pie-
ces and threw the bits among his linen under
the pillow.
"Pieces of torn linen couldn't rouse suspicion,
whatever happened; I think not, I think not,
any way!" he repeated, standing in the middle
of the room, and with painful concentration he
fell to gazing about him again, at the floor and
everywhere, trying to make sure he had not
forgotten anything. The conviction that all his
faculties, even memory, and the simplest po-
wer of reflection were failinghim, began to be
an insufferable torture.
"Surely it isn't beginning already! Surely it isn't
my punishment coming upon me? It is!"
The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were
actually lying on the floor in the middle of the
room, where anyone coming in would see
them!
"What is the matter with me!" he cried again,
like one distraught.
Then a strange idea entered his head; that, per-
haps, all his clothes were covered with blood,
that, perhaps, there were a great many stains,
but that he did not see them, did not notice
them because his perceptions were failing, were
going to pieces... his reason was clouded....
Suddenly he remembered that there had been
blood on the purse too. "Ah! Then there must
be blood on the pocket too, for I put the wet
purse in my pocket!"
In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out
and, yes!—there were traces, stains on the li-
ning of the pocket!
"So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I
still have some sense and memory, since I gues-
sed it of myself," he thought triumphantly, with
a deep sigh of relief; "it's simply the weakness
of fever, a moment's delirium," and he tore the
whole lining out of the left pocket of his trou-
sers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left
boot; on the sock which poked out from the
boot, he fancied there were traces! He flung off
his boots; "traces indeed! The tip of the sock
was soaked with blood;" he must have unwari-
ly stepped into that pool.... "But what am I to
do with this now? Where am I to put the sock
and rags and pocket?"
He gathered them all up in his hands and stood
in the middle of the room.
"In the stove? But they would ransack the stove
first of all. Burn them? But what can I burn
them with? There are no matches even. No,
better go out and throw it all away somewhere.
Yes, better throw it away," he repeated, sitting
down on the sofa again, "and at once, this mi-
nute, without lingering..."
But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again
the unbearable icy shivering came over him;
again he drew his coat over him.
And for a long while, for some hours, he was
haunted by the impulse to "go off somewhere
at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so
that it may be out of sight and done with, at
once, at once!" Several times he tried to rise
from the sofa, but could not.
He was thoroughly waked up at last by a vio-
lent knocking at his door.
"Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps
sleeping here!" shouted Nastasya, banging with
her fist on the door. "For whole days together
he's snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too.
Open I tell you. It's past ten."
"Maybe he's not at home," said a man's voice.
"Ha! that's the porter's voice.... What does he
want?"
He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating
of his heart was a positive pain.
"Then who can have latched the door?" retorted
Nastasya. "He's taken to bolting himself in! As
if he were worth stealing! Open, you stupid,
wake up!"
"What do they want? Why the porter? All's
discovered. Resist or open? Come what may!..."
He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched
the door.
His room was so small that he could undo the
latch without leaving the bed. Yes; the porter
and Nastasya were standing there.
Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He
glanced with a defiant and desperate air at the
porter, who without a word held out a grey
folded paper sealed with bottle-wax.
"A notice from the office," he announced, as he
gave him the paper.
"From what office?"
"A summons to the police office, of course. You
know which office."
"To the police?... What for?..."
"How can I tell? You're sent for, so you go."
The man looked at him attentively, looked
round the room and turned to go away.
"He's downright ill!" observed Nastasya, not
taking her eyes off him. The porter turned his
head for a moment. "He's been in a fever since
yesterday," she added.
Raskolnikov made no response and held the
paper in his hands, without opening it. "Don't
you get up then," Nastasya went on compas-
sionately, seeing that he was letting his feet
down from the sofa. "You're ill, and so don't go;
there's no such hurry. What have you got the-
re?"
He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds
he had cut from his trousers, the sock, and the
rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep with
them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it,
he remembered that half waking up in his fe-
ver, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand
and so fallen asleep again.
"Look at the rags he's collected and sleeps with
them, as though he has got hold of a treasure..."
And Nastasya went off into her hysterical gig-
gle.
Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat
and fixed his eyes intently upon her. Far as he
was from being capable of rational reflection at
that moment, he felt that no one would behave
like that with a person who was going to be
arrested. "But... the police?"
"You'd better have some tea! Yes? I'll bring it,
there's some left."
"No... I'm going; I'll go at once," he muttered,
getting on to his feet.
"Why, you'll never get downstairs!"
"Yes, I'll go."
"As you please."
She followed the porter out.
At once he rushed to the light to examine the
sock and the rags.
"There are stains, but not very noticeable; all
covered with dirt, and rubbed and already dis-
coloured. No one who had no suspicion could
distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance
could not have noticed, thank God!" Then with
a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and
began reading; he was a long while reading,
before he understood. It was an ordinary sum-
mons from the district police-station to appear
that day at half-past nine at the office of the
district superintendent.
"But when has such a thing happened? I never
have anything to do with the police! And why
just to-day?" he thought in agonising bewil-
derment. "Good God, only get it over soon!"
He was flinging himself on his knees to pray,
but broke into laughter—not at the idea of pra-
yer, but at himself.
He began, hurriedly dressing. "If I'm lost, I am
lost, I don't care! Shall I put the sock on?" he
suddenly wondered, "it will get dustier still
and the traces will be gone."
But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it
off again in loathing and horror. He pulled it
off, but reflecting that he had no other socks, he
picked it up and put it on again—and again he
laughed.
"That's all conventional, that's all relative, mere-
ly a way of looking at it," he thought in a flash,
but only on the top surface of his mind, while
he was shuddering all over, "there, I've got it
on! I have finished by getting it on!"
But his laughter was quickly followed by des-
pair.
"No, it's too much for me..." he thought. His
legs shook. "From fear," he muttered. His head
swam and ached with fever. "It's a trick! They
want to decoy me there and confound me over
everything," he mused, as he went out on to the
stairs—"the worst of it is I'm almost light-
headed... I may blurt out something stupid..."
On the stairs he remembered that he was lea-
ving all the things just as they were in the hole
in the wall, "and very likely, it's on purpose to
search when I'm out," he thought, and stopped
short. But he was possessed by such despair,
such cynicism of misery, if one may so call it,
that with a wave of his hand he went on. "Only
to get it over!"
In the street the heat was insufferable again; not
a drop of rain had fallen all those days. Again
dust, bricks and mortar, again the stench from
the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken
men, the Finnish pedlars and half-broken-
down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes,
so that it hurt him to look out of them, and he
felt his head going round—as a man in a fever
is apt to feel when he comes out into the street
on a bright sunny day.
When he reached the turning into the street, in
an agony of trepidation he looked down it... at
the house... and at once averted his eyes.
"Ifthey question me, perhaps I'll simply tell,"
he thought, as he drew near the police-station.
The police-station was about a quarter of a mile
off. It had lately been moved to new rooms on
the fourth floor of a new house. He had been
once for a moment in the old office but long
ago. Turning in at the gateway, he saw on the
right a flight of stairs which a peasant was
mounting with a book in his hand. "A house-
porter, no doubt; so then, the office is here,"
and he began ascending the stairs on the chan-
ce. He did not want to ask questions of anyone.
"I'll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everyt-
hing..." he thought, as he reached the fourth
floor.
The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy
with dirty water. The kitchens of the flats ope-
ned on to the stairs and stood open almost the
whole day. So there was a fearful smell and
heat. The staircase was crowded with porters
going up and down with their books under
their arms, policemen, and persons of all sorts
and both sexes. The door of the office, too,
stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting wit-
hin. There, too, the heat was stifling and there
was a sickening smell of fresh paint and stale
oil from the newly decorated rooms.
After waiting a little, he decided to move for-
ward into the next room. All the rooms were
small and low-pitched. A fearful impatience
drew him on and on. No one paid attention to
him. In the second room some clerks sat wri-
ting, dressed hardly better than he was, and
rather a queer-looking set. He went up to one
of them.
"What is it?"
He showed the notice he had received.
"You are a student?" the man asked, glancing at
the notice.
"Yes, formerly a student."
The clerk looked at him, but without the sligh-
test interest. He was a particularly unkempt
person with the look of a fixed idea in his eye.
"There would be no getting anything out of
him, because he has no interest in anything,"
thought Raskolnikov.
"Go in there to the head clerk," said the clerk,
pointing towards the furthest room.
He went into that room—the fourth in order; it
was a small room and packed full of people,
rather better dressed than in the outer rooms.
Among them were two ladies. One, poorly
dressed in mourning, sat at the table opposite
the chief clerk, writing something at his dicta-
tion. The other, a very stout, buxom woman
with a purplish-red, blotchy face, excessively
smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as
big as a saucer, was standing on one side, appa-
rently waiting for something. Raskolnikov
thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The latter
glanced at it, said: "Wait a minute," and went
on attending to the lady in mourning.
He breathed more freely. "It can't be that!"
By degrees he began to regain confidence, he
kept urging himself to have courage and be
calm.
"Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness,
and I may betray myself! Hm... it's a pity there's
no air here," he added, "it's stifling.... It makes
one's head dizzier than ever... and one's mind
too..."
He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He
was afraid of losing his self-control; he tried to
catch at something and fix his mind on it, so-
mething quite irrelevant, but he could not suc-
ceed in this at all. Yet the head clerk greatly
interested him, he kept hoping to see through
him and guess something from his face.
He was a very young man, about two and
twenty, with a dark mobile face that looked
older than his years. He was fashionably dres-
sed and foppish, with his hair parted in the
middle, well combed and pomaded, and wore
a number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers
and a gold chain on his waistcoat. He said a
couple of words in French to a foreigner who
was in the room, and said them fairly correctly.
"Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down," he said
casually to the gaily-dressed, purple-faced la-
dy, who was still standing as though not ventu-
ring to sit down, though there was a chair besi-
de her.
"Ich danke," said the latter, and softly, with a
rustle of silk she sank into the chair. Her light
blue dress trimmed with white lace floated
about the table like an air-balloon and filled
almost half the room. She smelt of scent. But
she was obviously embarrassed at filling half
the room and smelling so strongly of scent; and
though her smile was impudent as well as crin-
ging, it betrayed evident uneasiness.
The lady in mourning had done at last, and got
up. All at once, with some noise, an officer
walked in very jauntily, with a peculiar swing
of his shoulders at each step. He tossed his coc-
kaded cap on the table and sat down in an ea-
sy-chair. The small lady positively skipped
from her seat on seeing him, and fell to curts-
ying in a sort of ecstasy; but the officer took not
the smallest notice of her, and she did not ven-
ture to sit down again in his presence. He was
the assistant superintendent. He had a reddish
moustache that stood out horizontally on each
side of his face, and extremely small features,
expressive of nothing much except a certain
insolence. He looked askance and rather indig-
nantly at Raskolnikov; he was so very badly
dressed, and in spite of his humiliating posi-
tion, his bearing was by no means in keeping
with his clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily
fixed a very long and direct look on him, so
that he felt positively affronted.
"What do you want?" he shouted, apparently
astonished that such a ragged fellow was not
annihilated by the majesty of his glance.
"I was summoned... by a notice..." Raskolnikov
faltered.
"For the recovery of money due, from the stu-
dent," the head clerk interfered hurriedly, tea-
ring himself from his papers. "Here!" and he
flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out
the place. "Read that!"
"Money? What money?" thought Raskolnikov,
"but... then... it's certainly not that."
And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden in-
tense indescribable relief. A load was lifted
from his back.
"And pray, what time were you directed to
appear, sir?" shouted the assistant superinten-
dent, seeming for some unknown reason more
and more aggrieved. "You are told to come at
nine, and now it's twelve!"
"The notice was only brought me a quarter of
an hour ago," Raskolnikov answered loudly
over his shoulder. To his own surprise he, too,
grew suddenly angry and found a certain plea-
sure in it. "And it's enough that I have come
here ill with fever."
"Kindly refrain from shouting!"
"I'm not shouting, I'm speaking very quietly, it's
you who are shouting at me. I'm a student, and
allow no one to shout at me."
The assistant superintendent was so furious
that for the first minute he could only splutter
inarticulately. He leaped up from his seat.
"Be silent! You are in a government office.
Don't be impudent, sir!"
"You're in a government office, too," cried Ras-
kolnikov, "and you're smoking a cigarette as
well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect
to all of us."
He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having
said this.
The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The
angry assistant superintendent was obviously
disconcerted.
"That's not your business!" he shouted at last
with unnatural loudness. "Kindly make the
declaration demanded of you. Show him.
Alexandr Grigorievitch. There is a complaint
against you! You don't pay your debts! You're a
fine bird!"
But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had
eagerly clutched at the paper, in haste to find
an explanation. He read it once, and a second
time, and still did not understand.
"What is this?" he asked the head clerk.
"It is for the recovery of money on an I O U, a
writ. You must either pay it, with all expenses,
costs and so on, or give a written declaration
when you can pay it, and at the same time an
undertaking not to leave the capital without
payment, and nor to sell or conceal your pro-
perty. The creditor is at liberty to sell your pro-
perty, and proceed against you according to the
law."
"But I...am not in debt to anyone!"
"That's not our business. Here, an I O U for a
hundred and fifteen roubles, legally attested,
and due for payment, has been brought us for
recovery, given by you to the widow of the
assessor Zarnitsyn, nine months ago, and paid
over by the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tche-
barov. We therefore summon you, hereupon."
"But she is my landlady!"
"And what if she is your landlady?"
The head clerk looked at him with a condes-
cending smile of compassion, and at the same
time with a certain triumph, as at a novice un-
der fire for the first time—as though he would
say: "Well, how do you feel now?" But what did
he care now for an I O U, for a writ of recovery!
Was that worth worrying about now, was it
worth attention even! He stood, he read, he
listened, he answered, he even asked questions
himself, but all mechanically. The triumphant
sense of security, of deliverance from overw-
helming danger, that was what filled his whole
soul that moment without thought for the futu-
re, without analysis, without suppositions or
surmises, without doubts and without questio-
ning. It was an instant of full, direct, purely
instinctive joy. But at that very moment somet-
hing like a thunderstorm took place in the offi-
ce. The assistant superintendent, still shaken by
Raskolnikov's disrespect, still fuming and ob-
viously anxious to keep up his wounded digni-
ty, pounced on the unfortunate smart lady,
who had been gazing at him ever since he came
in with an exceedingly silly smile.
"You shameful hussy!" he shouted suddenly at
the top of his voice. (The lady in mourning had
left the office.) "What was going on at your
house last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you're a
scandal to the whole street. Fighting and drin-
king again. Do you want the house of correc-
tion? Why, I have warned you ten times over
that I would not let you off the eleventh! And
here you are again, again, you... you...!"
The paper fell out of Raskolnikov's hands, and
he looked wildly at the smart lady who was so
unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw
what it meant, and at once began to find positi-
ve amusement in the scandal. He listened with
pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and
laugh... all his nerves were on edge.
"Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk was beginning
anxiously, but stopped short, for he knew from
experience that the enraged assistant could not
be stopped except by force.
As for the smart lady, at first she positively
trembled before the storm. But, strange to say,
the more numerous and violent the terms of
abuse became, the more amiable she looked,
and the more seductive the smiles she lavished
on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily,
and curtsied incessantly, waiting impatiently
for a chance of putting in her word: and at last
she found it.
"There was no sort of noise or fighting in my
house, Mr. Captain," she pattered all at once,
like peas dropping, speaking Russian confiden-
tly, though with a strong German accent, "and
no sort of scandal, and his honour came drunk,
and it's the whole truth I am telling, Mr. Cap-
tain, and I am not to blame.... Mine is an honou-
rable house, Mr. Captain, and honourable be-
haviour, Mr. Captain, and I always, always
dislike any scandal myself. But he came quite
tipsy, and asked for three bottles again, and
then he lifted up one leg, and began playing the
pianoforte with one foot, and that is not at all
right in an honourable house, and he ganz bro-
ke the piano, and it was very bad manners in-
deed and I said so. And he took up a bottle and
began hitting everyone with it. And then I ca-
lled the porter, and Karl came, and he took Karl
and hit him in the eye; and he hit Henriette in
the eye, too, and gave me five slaps on the
cheek. And it was so ungentlemanly in an
honourable house, Mr. Captain, and I screa-
med. And he opened the window over the ca-
nal, and stood in the window, squealing like a
little pig; it was a disgrace. The idea of squea-
ling like a little pig at the window into the
street! Fie upon him! And Karl pulled him
away from the window by his coat, and it is
true, Mr. Captain, he tore sein rock. And then he
shouted that man muss pay him fifteen roubles
damages. And I did pay him, Mr. Captain, five
roubles for sein rock. And he is an ungentleman-
ly visitor and caused all the scandal. 'I will
show you up,' he said, 'for I can write to all the
papers about you.'"
"Then he was an author?"
"Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly
visitor in an honourable house...."
"Now then! Enough! I have told you already..."
"Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk repeated signi-
ficantly.
The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head
clerk slightly shook his head.
"... So I tell you this, most respectable Luise
Ivanovna, and I tell it you for the last time," the
assistant went on. "If there is a scandal in your
honourable house once again, I will put you
yourself in the lock-up, as it is called in polite
society. Do you hear? So a literary man, an aut-
hor took five roubles for his coat-tail in an 'ho-
nourable house'? A nice set, these authors!"
And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskol-
nikov. "There was a scandal the other day in a
restaurant, too. An author had eaten his dinner
and would not pay; 'I'll write a satire on you,'
says he. And there was another of them on a
steamer last week used the most disgraceful
language to the respectable family of a civil
councillor, his wife and daughter. And there
was one of them turned out of a confectioner's
shop the other day. They are like that, authors,
literary men, students, town-criers.... Pfoo! You
get along! I shall look in upon you myself one
day. Then you had better be careful! Do you
hear?"
With hurried deference, Luise Ivanovna fell to
curtsying in all directions, and so curtsied her-
self to the door. But at the door, she stumbled
backwards against a good-looking officer with
a fresh, open face and splendid thick fair whis-
kers. This was the superintendent of the district
himself, Nikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna
made haste to curtsy almost to the ground, and
with mincing little steps, she fluttered out of
the office.
"Again thunder and lightning—a hurricane!"
said Nikodim Fomitch to Ilya Petrovitch in a
civil and friendly tone. "You are aroused again,
you are fuming again! I heard it on the stairs!"
"Well, what then!" Ilya Petrovitch drawled with
gentlemanly nonchalance; and he walked with
some papers to another table, with a jaunty
swing of his shoulders at each step. "Here, if
you will kindly look: an author, or a student,
has been one at least, does not pay his debts,
has given an I O U, won't clear out of his room,
and complaints are constantly being lodged
against him, and here he has been pleased to
make a protest against my smoking in his pre-
sence! He behaves like a cad himself, and just
look at him, please. Here's the gentleman, and
very attractive he is!"
"Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know
you go off like powder, you can't bear a slight, I
daresay you took offence at something and
went too far yourself," continued Nikodim Fo-
mitch, turning affably to Raskolnikov. "But you
were wrong there; he is a capital fellow, I assu-
re you, but explosive, explosive! He gets hot,
fires up, boils over, and no stopping him! And
then it's all over! And at the bottom he's a heart
of gold! His nickname in the regiment was the
Explosive Lieutenant...."
"And what a regiment it was, too," cried Ilya
Petrovitch, much gratified at this agreeable
banter, though still sulky.
Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say somet-
hing exceptionally pleasant to them all. "Excuse
me, Captain," he began easily, suddenly ad-
dressing Nikodim Fomitch, "will you enter into
my position?... I am ready to ask pardon, if I
have been ill-mannered. I am a poor student,
sick and shattered (shattered was the word he
used) by poverty. I am not studying, because I
cannot keep myself now, but I shall get mo-
ney....I have a mother and sister in the provin-
ce of X. They will send it to me, and I will pay.
My landlady is a good-hearted woman, but she
is so exasperated at my having lost my lessons,
and not paying her for the last four months,
that she does not even send up my dinner...
and I don't understand this I O U at all. She is
asking me to pay her on this I O U. How am I
to pay her? Judge for yourselves!..."
"But that is not our business, you know," the
head clerk was observing.
"Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow
me to explain..." Raskolnikov put in again, still
addressing Nikodim Fomitch, but trying his
best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the
latter persistently appeared to be rummaging
among his papers and to be contemptuously
oblivious of him. "Allow me to explain that I
have been living with her for nearly three years
and at first... at first... for why should I not con-
fess it, at the very beginning I promised to ma-
rry her daughter, it was a verbal promise, freely
given... she was a girl... indeed, I liked her,
though I was not in love with her... a youthful
affair in fact... that is, I mean to say, that my
landlady gave me credit freely in those days,
and I led a life of... I was very heedless..."
"Nobody asks you for these personal details,
sir, we've no time to waste," Ilya Petrovitch
interposed roughly and with a note of triumph;
but Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he
suddenly found it exceedingly difficult to
speak.
"But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to ex-
plain... how it all happened... In my turn...
though I agree with you... it is unnecessary. But
a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained
lodging there as before, and when my landlady
moved into her present quarters, she said to
me... and in a friendly way... that she had com-
plete trust in me, but still, would I not give her
an I O U for one hundred and fifteen roubles,
all the debt I owed her. She said if only I gave
her that, she would trust me again, as much as I
liked, and that she would never, never—those
were her own words—make use of that I O U
till I could pay of myself... and now, when I
have lost my lessons and have nothing to eat,
she takes action against me. What am I to say to
that?"
"All these affecting details are no business of
ours." Ilya Petrovitch interrupted rudely. "You
must give a written undertaking but as for your
love affairs and all these tragic events, we have
nothing to do with that."
"Come now... you are harsh," muttered Niko-
dim Fomitch, sitting down at the table and also
beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed.
"Write!" said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.
"Write what?" the latter asked, gruffly.
"I will dictate to you."
Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated
him more casually and contemptuously after
his speech, but strange to say he suddenly felt
completely indifferent to anyone's opinion, and
this revulsion took place in a flash, in one ins-
tant. If he had cared to think a little, he would
have been amazed indeed that he could have
talked to them like that a minute before, forcing
his feelings upon them. And where had those
feelings come from? Now if the whole room
had been filled, not with police officers, but
with those nearest and dearest to him, he
would not have found one human word for
them, so empty was his heart. A gloomy sensa-
tion of agonising, everlasting solitude and re-
moteness, took conscious form in his soul. It
was not the meanness of his sentimental effu-
sions before Ilya Petrovitch, nor the meanness
of the latter's triumph over him that had caused
this sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh, what
had he to do now with his own baseness, with
all these petty vanities, officers, German wo-
men, debts, police-offices? If he had been sen-
tenced to be burnt at that moment, he would
not have stirred, would hardly have heard the
sentence to the end. Something was happening
to him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It
was not that he understood, but he felt clearly
with all the intensity of sensation that he could
never more appeal to these people in the police-
office with sentimental effusions like his recent
outburst, or with anything whatever; and that
if they had been his own brothers and sisters
and not police-officers, it would have been ut-
terly out of the question to appeal to them in
any circumstance of life. He had never expe-
rienced such a strange and awful sensation.
And what was most agonising—it was more a
sensation than a conception or idea, a direct
sensation, the most agonising of all the sensa-
tions he had known in his life.
The head clerk began dictating to him the usual
form of declaration, that he could not pay, that
he undertook to do so at a future date, that he
would not leave the town, nor sell his property,
and so on.
"But you can't write, you can hardly hold the
pen," observed the head clerk, looking with
curiosity at Raskolnikov. "Are you ill?"
"Yes, I am giddy. Go on!"
"That's all. Sign it."
The head clerk took the paper, and turned to
attend to others.
Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of
getting up and going away, he put his elbows
on the table and pressed his head in his hands.
He felt as if a nail were being driven into his
skull. A strange idea suddenly occurred to him,
to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim Fomitch,
and tell him everything that had happened
yesterday, and then to go with him to his lod-
gings and to show him the things in the hole in
the corner. The impulse was so strong that he
got up from his seat to carry it out. "Hadn't I
better think a minute?" flashed through his
mind. "No, better cast off the burden without
thinking." But all at once he stood still, rooted
to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking ea-
gerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words rea-
ched him:
"It's impossible, they'll both be released. To
begin with, the whole story contradicts itself.
Why should they have called the porter, if it
had been their doing? To inform against them-
selves? Or as a blind? No, that would be too
cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was
seen at the gate by both the porters and a wo-
man as he went in. He was walking with three
friends, who left him only at the gate, and he
asked the porters to direct him, in the presence
of the friends. Now, would he have asked his
way if he had been going with such an object?
As for Koch, he spent half an hour at the sil-
versmith's below, before he went up to the old
woman and he left him at exactly a quarter to
eight. Now just consider..."
"But excuse me, how do you explain this con-
tradiction? They state themselves that they
knocked and the door was locked; yet three
minutes later when they went up with the por-
ter, it turned out the door was unfastened."
"That's just it; the murderer must have been
there and bolted himself in; and they'd have
caught him for a certainty if Koch had not been
an ass and gone to look for the porter too. He
must have seized the interval to get downstairs
and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps cros-
sing himself and saying: 'If I had been there, he
would have jumped out and killed me with his
axe.' He is going to have a thanksgiving servi-
ce—ha, ha!"
"And no one saw the murderer?"
"They might well not see him; the house is a
regular Noah's Ark," said the head clerk, who
was listening.
"It's clear, quite clear," Nikodim Fomitch repea-
ted warmly.
"No, it is anything but clear," Ilya Petrovitch
maintained.
Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked to-
wards the door, but he did not reach it....
When he recovered consciousness, he found
himself sitting in a chair, supported by someo-
ne on the right side, while someone else was
standing on the left, holding a yellowish glass
filled with yellow water, and Nikodim Fomitch
standing before him, looking intently at him.
He got up from the chair.
"What's this? Are you ill?" Nikodim Fomitch
asked, rather sharply."He could hardly hold his pen when he was
signing," said the head clerk, settling back in
his place, and taking up his work again.
"Have you been ill long?" cried Ilya Petrovitch
from his place, where he, too, was looking
through papers. He had, of course, come to
look at the sick man when he fainted, but reti-
red at once when he recovered.
"Since yesterday," muttered Raskolnikov in
reply.
"Did you go out yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Though you were ill?"
"Yes."
"At what time?"
"About seven."
"And where did you go, my I ask?"
"Along the street."
"Short and clear."
Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had ans-
wered sharply, jerkily, without dropping his
black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch's sta-
re.
"He can scarcely stand upright. And you..."
Nikodim Fomitch was beginning.
"No matter," Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather
peculiarly.
Nikodim Fomitch would have made some furt-
her protest, but glancing at the head clerk who
was looking very hard at him, he did not speak.
There was a sudden silence. It was strange.
"Very well, then," concluded Ilya Petrovitch,
"we will not detain you."
Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of
eager conversation on his departure, and above
the rest rose the questioning voice of Nikodim
Fomitch. In the street, his faintness passed off
completely.
"A search—there will be a search at once," he
repeated to himself, hurrying home. "The bru-
tes! they suspect."
His former terror mastered him completely
again.
CHAPTER II
"And what if there has been a search already?
What if I find them in my room?"
But here was his room. Nothing and no one in
it. No one had peeped in. Even Nastasya had
not touched it. But heavens! how could he have
left all those things in the hole?
He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand un-
der the paper, pulled the things out and lined
his pockets with them. There were eight articles
in all: two little boxes with ear-rings or somet-
hing of the sort, he hardly looked to see; then
four small leather cases. There was a chain, too,
merely wrapped in newspaper and something
else in newspaper, that looked like a decora-
tion.... He put them all in the different pockets
of his overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his
trousers, trying to conceal them as much as
possible. He took the purse, too. Then he went
out of his room, leaving the door open. He
walked quickly and resolutely, and though he
felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He
was afraid of pursuit, he was afraid that in
another half-hour, another quarter of an hour
perhaps, instructions would be issued for his
pursuit, and so at all costs, he must hide all
traces before then. He must clear everything up
while he still had some strength, some reaso-
ning power left him.... Where was he to go?
That had long been settled: "Fling them into the
canal, and all traces hidden in the water, the
thing would be at an end." So he had decided in
the night of his delirium when several times he
had had the impulse to get up and go away, to
make haste, and get rid of it all. But to get rid of
it, turned out to be a very difficult task. He
wandered along the bank of the Ekaterininsky
Canal for half an hour or more and looked se-
veral times at the steps running down to the
water, but he could not think of carrying out
his plan; either rafts stood at the steps' edge,
and women were washing clothes on them, or
boats were moored there, and people were
swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be
seen and noticed from the banks on all sides; it
would look suspicious for a man to go down on
purpose, stop, and throw something into the
water. And what if the boxes were to float ins-
tead of sinking? And of course they would.
Even as it was, everyone he met seemed to sta-
re and look round, as if they had nothing to do
but to watch him. "Why is it, or can it be my
fancy?" he thought.
At last the thought struck him that it might be
better to go to the Neva. There were not so ma-
ny people there, he would be less observed,
and it would be more convenient in every way,
above all it was further off. He wondered how
he could have been wandering for a good half-
hour, worried and anxious in this dangerous
past without thinking of it before. And that
half-hour he had lost over an irrational plan,
simply because he had thought of it in deli-
rium! He had become extremely absent and
forgetful and he was aware of it. He certainly
must make haste.
He walked towards the Neva along V——
Prospect, but on the way another idea struck
him. "Why to the Neva? Would it not be better
to go somewhere far off, to the Islands again,
and there hide the things in some solitary place,
in a wood or under a bush, and mark the spot
perhaps?" And though he felt incapable of clear
judgment, the idea seemed to him a sound one.
But he was not destined to go there. For coming
out of V—— Prospect towards the square, he
saw on the left a passage leading between two
blank walls to a courtyard. On the right hand,
the blank unwhitewashed wall of a four-storied
house stretched far into the court; on the left, a
wooden hoarding ran parallel with it for twen-
ty paces into the court, and then turned sharply
to the left. Here was a deserted fenced-off place
where rubbish of different sorts was lying. At
the end of the court, the corner of a low, smut-
ty, stone shed, apparently part of some works-
hop, peeped from behind the hoarding. It was
probably a carriage builder's or carpenter's
shed; the whole place from the entrance was
black with coal dust. Here would be the place
to throw it, he thought. Not seeing anyone in
the yard, he slipped in, and at once saw near
the gate a sink, such as is often put in yards
where there are many workmen or cab-drivers;
and on the hoarding above had been scribbled
in chalk the time-honoured witticism, "Stan-
ding here strictly forbidden." This was all the
better, for there would be nothing suspicious
about his going in. "Here I could throw it all in
a heap and get away!"
Looking round once more, with his hand alrea-
dy in his pocket, he noticed against the outer
wall, between the entrance and the sink, a big
unhewn stone, weighing perhaps sixty pounds.
The other side of the wall was a street. He
could hear passers-by, always numerous in that
part, but he could not be seen from the entran-
ce, unless someone came in from the street,
which might well happen indeed, so there was
need of haste.
He bent down over the stone, seized the top of
it firmly in both hands, and using all his
strength turned it over. Under the stone was a
small hollow in the ground, and he immediate-
ly emptied his pocket into it. The purse lay at
the top, and yet the hollow was not filled up.
Then he seized the stone again and with one
twist turned it back, so that it was in the same
position again, though it stood a very little hig-
her. But he scraped the earth about it and pres-
sed it at the edges with his foot. Nothing could
be noticed.
Then he went out, and turned into the square.
Again an intense, almost unbearable joy overw-
helmed him for an instant, as it had in the poli-
ce-office. "I have buried my tracks! And who,
who can think of looking under that stone? It
has been lying there most likely ever since the
house was built, and will lie as many years mo-
re. And if it were found, who would think of
me? It is all over! No clue!" And he laughed.
Yes, he remembered that he began laughing a
thin, nervous noiseless laugh, and went on
laughing all the time he was crossing the squa-
re. But when he reached the K—— Boulevard
where two days before he had come upon that
girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other ideas
crept into his mind. He felt all at once that it
would be loathsome to pass that seat on which
after the girl was gone, he had sat and ponde-
red, and that it would be hateful, too, to meet
that whiskered policeman to whom he had gi-
ven the twenty copecks: "Damn him!"
He walked, looking abouthim angrily and dis-
tractedly. All his ideas now seemed to be cir-
cling round some single point, and he felt that
there really was such a point, and that now,
now, he was left facing that point—and for the
first time, indeed, during the last two months.
"Damn it all!" he thought suddenly, in a fit of
ungovernable fury. "If it has begun, then it has
begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how
stupid it is!... And what lies I told to-day! How
despicably I fawned upon that wretched Ilya
Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I care
for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is
not that at all! It is not that at all!"
Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected
and exceedingly simple question perplexed and
bitterly confounded him.
"If it all has really been done deliberately and
not idiotically, if I really had a certain and defi-
nite object, how is it I did not even glance into
the purse and don't know what I had there, for
which I have undergone these agonies, and
have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy
degrading business? And here I wanted at once
to throw into the water the purse together with
all the things which I had not seen either...
how's that?"
Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had
known it all before, and it was not a new ques-
tion for him, even when it was decided in the
night without hesitation and consideration, as
though so it must be, as though it could not
possibly be otherwise.... Yes, he had known it
all, and understood it all; it surely had all been
settled even yesterday at the moment when he
was bending over the box and pulling the je-
wel-cases out of it.... Yes, so it was.
"It is because I am very ill," he decided grimly
at last, "I have been worrying and fretting my-
self, and I don't know what I am doing.... Yes-
terday and the day before yesterday and all this
time I have been worrying myself.... I shall get
well and I shall not worry.... But what if I don't
get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it
all!"
He walked on without resting. He had a terri-
ble longing for some distraction, but he did not
know what to do, what to attempt. A new
overwhelming sensation was gaining more and
more mastery over him every moment; this was
an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion
for everything surrounding him, an obstinate,
malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him
were loathsome to him—he loathed their faces,
their movements, their gestures. If anyone had
addressed him, he felt that he might have spat
at him or bitten him....
He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the
bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vas-
silyevsky Ostrov. "Why, he lives here, in that
house," he thought, "why, I have not come to
Razumihin of my own accord! Here it's the sa-
me thing over again.... Very interesting to
know, though; have I come on purpose or have
I simply walked here by chance? Never mind, I
said the day before yesterday that I would go
and see him the day after; well, and so I will!
Besides I really cannot go further now."
He went up to Razumihin's room on the fifth
floor.
The latter was at home in his garret, busily wri-
ting at the moment, and he opened the door
himself. It was four months since they had seen
each other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged
dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet,
unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face
showed surprise.
"Is it you?" he cried. He looked his comrade up
and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled.
"As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you've
cut me out!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov's
rags. "Come sit down, you are tired, I'll be
bound."
And when he had sunk down on the American
leather sofa, which was in even worse condi-
tion than his own, Razumihin saw at once that
his visitor was ill.
"Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?"
He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled
away his hand.
"Never mind," he said, "I have come for this: I
have no lessons.... I wanted,... but I don't really
want lessons...."
"But I say! You are delirious, you know!" Ra-
zumihin observed, watching him carefully.
"No, I am not."
Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had
mounted the stairs to Razumihin's, he had not
realised that he would be meeting his friend
face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what
he was least of all disposed for at that moment
was to be face to face with anyone in the wide
world. His spleen rose within him. He almost
choked with rage at himself as soon as he cros-
sed Razumihin's threshold.
"Good-bye," he said abruptly, and walked to
the door.
"Stop, stop! You queer fish."
"I don't want to," said the other, again pulling
away his hand.
"Then why the devil have you come? Are you
mad, or what? Why, this is... almost insulting! I
won't let you go like that."
"Well, then, I came to you because I know no
one but you who could help... to begin... becau-
se you are kinder than anyone—cleverer, I
mean, and can judge... and now I see that I
want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all... no
one's services... no one's sympathy. I am by
myself... alone. Come, that's enough. Leave me
alone."
"Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect
madman. As you like for all I care. I have no
lessons, do you see, and I don't care about that,
but there's a bookseller, Heruvimov—and he
takes the place of a lesson. I would not exchan-
ge him for five lessons. He's doing publishing
of a kind, and issuing natural science manuals
and what a circulation they have! The very ti-
tles are worth the money! You always maintai-
ned that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there
are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting
up for being advanced, not that he has an in-
kling of anything, but, of course, I encourage
him. Here are two signatures of the German
text—in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism;
it discusses the question, 'Is woman a human
being?' And, of course, triumphantly proves
that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out
this work as a contribution to the woman ques-
tion; I am translating it; he will expand these
two and a half signatures into six, we shall ma-
ke up a gorgeous title half a page long and
bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays
me six roubles the signature, it works out to
about fifteen roubles for the job, and I've had
six already in advance. When we have finished
this, we are going to begin a translation about
whales, and then some of the dullest scandals
out of the second part of Les Confessions we
have marked for translation; somebody has
told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind of
Radishchev. You may be sure I don't contradict
him, hang him! Well, would you like to do the
second signature of 'Is woman a human being?' If
you would, take the German and pens and pa-
per—all those are provided, and take three
roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advan-
ce on the whole thing, three roubles come to
you for your share. And when you have finis-
hed the signature there will be another three
roubles for you. And please don't think I am
doing you a service; quite the contrary, as soon
as you came in, I saw how you could help me;
to begin with, I am weak in spelling, and se-
condly, I am sometimes utterly adrift in Ger-
man, so that I make it up as I go along for the
most part. The only comfort is, that it's bound
to be a change for the better. Though who can
tell, maybe it's sometimes for the worse. Will
you take it?"
Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence,
took the three roubles and without a word
went out. Razumihin gazed after him in asto-
nishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the
next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs
to Razumihin's again and laying on the table
the German article and the three roubles, went
out again, still without uttering a word.
"Are you raving, or what?" Razumihin shouted,
roused to fury at last. "What farce is this? You'll
drive me crazy too... what did you come to see
me for, damn you?"
"I don't want... translation,"muttered Raskolni-
kov from the stairs.
"Then what the devil do you want?" shouted
Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued
descending the staircase in silence.
"Hey, there! Where are you living?"
No answer.
"Well, confound you then!"
But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the
street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was rou-
sed to full consciousness again by an unplea-
sant incident. A coachman, after shouting at
him two or three times, gave him a violent lash
on the back with his whip, for having almost
fallen under his horses' hoofs. The lash so infu-
riated him that he dashed away to the railing
(for some unknown reason he had been wal-
king in the very middle of the bridge in the
traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his
teeth. He heard laughter, of course.
"Serves him right!"
"A pickpocket I dare say."
"Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting
under the wheels on purpose; and you have to
answer for him."
"It's a regular profession, that's what it is."
But while he stood at the railing, still looking
angry and bewildered after the retreating ca-
rriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt
someone thrust money into his hand. He loo-
ked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and
goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her
daughter wearing a hat, and carrying a green
parasol.
"Take it, my good man, in Christ's name."
He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of
twenty copecks. From his dress and appearance
they might well have taken him for a beggar
asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the
twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the blow,
which made them feel sorry for him.
He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, wal-
ked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Ne-
va, looking towards the palace. The sky was
without a cloud and the water was almost
bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The
cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best
from the bridge about twenty paces from the
chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure
air every ornament on it could be clearly dis-
tinguished. The pain from the lash went off,
and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy
and not quite definite idea occupied him now
completely. He stood still, and gazed long and
intently into the distance; this spot was especia-
lly familiar to him. When he was attending the
university, he had hundreds of times—
generally on his way home—stood still on this
spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle
and almost always marvelled at a vague and
mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him
strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for
him blank and lifeless. He wondered every
time at his sombre and enigmatic impression
and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the
explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old
doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him
that it was no mere chance that he recalled
them now. It struck him as strange and grotes-
que, that he should have stopped at the same
spot as before, as though he actually imagined
he could think the same thoughts, be interested
in the same theories and pictures that had inte-
rested him... so short a time ago. He felt it al-
most amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep
down, hidden far away out of sight all that
seemed to him now—all his old past, his old
thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old
impressions and that picture and himself and
all, all.... He felt as though he were flying up-
wards, and everything were vanishing from his
sight. Making an unconscious movement with
his hand, he suddenly became aware of the
piece of money in his fist. He opened his hand,
stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm
flung it into the water; then he turned and went
home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off
from everyone and from everything at that
moment.
Evening was coming on when he reached
home, so that he must have been walking about
six hours. How and where he came back he did
not remember. Undressing, and quivering like
an overdriven horse, he lay down on the sofa,
drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank
into oblivion....
It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful
scream. Good God, what a scream! Such unna-
tural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding,
tears, blows and curses he had never heard.
He could never have imagined such brutality,
such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost
swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing
and cursing grew louder and louder. And then
to his intense amazement he caught the voice of
his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and
wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so
that he could not make out what she was tal-
king about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not
to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly bea-
ten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was
so horrible from spite and rage that it was al-
most a croak; but he, too, was saying somet-
hing, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurr-
ying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov
trembled; he recognised the voice—it was the
voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here
and beating the landlady! He is kicking her,
banging her head against the steps—that's
clear, that can be told from the sounds, from
the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world
topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in
crowds from all the storeys and all the stairca-
ses; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking,
doors banging. "But why, why, and how could
it be?" he repeated, thinking seriously that he
had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly!
And they would come to him then next, "for no
doubt... it's all about that... about yesterday....
Good God!" He would have fastened his door
with the latch, but he could not lift his hand...
besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his
heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him....
But at last all this uproar, after continuing
about ten minutes, began gradually to subside.
The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya
Petrovitch was still uttering threats and cur-
ses.... But at last he, too, seemed to be silent,
and now he could not be heard. "Can he have
gone away? Good Lord!" Yes, and now the
landlady is going too, still weeping and moa-
ning... and then her door slammed.... Now the
crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms,
exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another,
raising their voices to a shout, dropping them
to a whisper. There must have been numbers of
them—almost all the inmates of the block. "But,
good God, how could it be! And why, why had
he come here!"
Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but
could not close his eyes. He lay for half an hour
in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation
of infinite terror as he had never experienced
before. Suddenly a bright light flashed into his
room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a
plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and
ascertaining that he was not asleep, she set the
candle on the table and began to lay out what
she had brought—bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.
"You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I wa-
rrant. You've been trudging about all day, and
you're shaking with fever."
"Nastasya... what were they beating the landla-
dy for?"
She looked intently at him.
"Who beat the landlady?"
"Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch,
the assistant superintendent, on the stairs....
Why was he ill-treating her like that, and... why
was he here?"
Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning,
and her scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt
uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
"Nastasya, why don't you speak?" he said ti-
midly at last in a weak voice.
"It's the blood," she answered at last softly, as
though speaking to herself.
"Blood? What blood?" he muttered, growing
white and turning towards the wall.
Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
"Nobody has been beating the landlady," she
declared at last in a firm, resolute voice.
He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
"I heard it myself.... I wasnot asleep... I was
sitting up," he said still more timidly. "I listened
a long while. The assistant superintendent ca-
me.... Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all
the flats."
"No one has been here. That's the blood crying
in your ears. When there's no outlet for it and it
gets clotted, you begin fancying things.... Will
you eat something?"
He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over
him, watching him.
"Give me something to drink... Nastasya."
She went downstairs and returned with a white
earthenware jug of water. He remembered only
swallowing one sip of the cold water and spi-
lling some on his neck. Then followed forget-
fulness.
CHAPTER III
He was not completely unconscious, however,
all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state,
sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious.
He remembered a great deal afterwards. Some-
times it seemed as though there were a number
of people round him; they wanted to take him
away somewhere, there was a great deal of
squabbling and discussing about him. Then he
would be alone in the room; they had all gone
away afraid of him, and only now and then
opened the door a crack to look at him; they
threatened him, plotted something together,
laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered
Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished
another person, too, whom he seemed to know
very well, though he could not remember who
he was, and this fretted him, even made him
cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying
there a month; at other times it all seemed part
of the same day. But of that—of that he had no
recollection, and yet every minute he felt that
he had forgotten something he ought to re-
member. He worried and tormented himself
trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage,
or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he
struggled to get up, would have run away, but
someone always prevented him by force, and
he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness.
At last he returned to complete consciousness.
It happened at ten o'clock in the morning. On
fine days the sun shone into the room at that
hour, throwing a streak of light on the right
wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya
was standing beside him with another person,
a complete stranger, who was looking at him
very inquisitively. He was a young man with a
beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat, and
looked like a messenger. The landlady was
peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolni-
kov sat up.
"Who is this, Nastasya?" he asked, pointing to
the young man.
"I say, he's himself again!" she said.
"He is himself," echoed the man.
Concluding that he had returned to his senses,
the landlady closed the door and disappeared.
She was always shy and dreaded conversations
or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not
at all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black
eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness
and laziness, and absurdly bashful.
"Who... are you?" he went on, addressing the
man. But at that moment the door was flung
open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall,
Razumihin came in.
"What a cabin it is!" he cried. "I am always
knocking my head. You call this a lodging! So
you are conscious, brother? I've just heard the
news from Pashenka."
"He has just come to," said Nastasya.
"Just come to," echoed the man again, with a
smile.
"And who are you?" Razumihin asked, sudden-
ly addressing him. "My name is Vrazumihin, at
your service; not Razumihin, as I am always
called, but Vrazumihin, a student and gentle-
man; and he is my friend. And who are you?"
"I am the messenger from our office, from the
merchant Shelopaev, and I've come on busi-
ness."
"Please sit down." Razumihin seated himself on
the other side of the table. "It's a good thing
you've come to, brother," he went on to Raskol-
nikov. "For the last four days you have scarcely
eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you
tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you
twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined
you carefully and said at once it was nothing
serious—something seemed to have gone to
your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result
of bad feeding, he says you have not had
enough beer and radish, but it's nothing much,
it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov
is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite a name.
Come, I won't keep you," he said, addressing
the man again. "Will you explain what you
want? You must know, Rodya, this is the se-
cond time they have sent from the office; but it
was another man last time, and I talked to him.
Who was it came before?"
"That was the day before yesterday, I venture
to say, if you please, sir. That was Alexey Sem-
yonovitch; he is in our office, too."
"He was more intelligent than you, don't you
think so?"
"Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I
am."
"Quite so; go on."
"At your mamma's request, through Afanasy
Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of whom I presume you
have heard more than once, a remittance is sent
to you from our office," the man began, addres-
sing Raskolnikov. "If you are in an intelligible
condition, I've thirty-five roubles to remit to
you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received
from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma's
request instructions to that effect, as on pre-
vious occasions. Do you know him, sir?"
"Yes, I remember... Vahrushin," Raskolnikov
said dreamily.
"You hear, he knows Vahrushin," cried Razu-
mihin. "He is in 'an intelligible condition'! And I
see you are an intelligent man too. Well, it's
always pleasant to hear words of wisdom."
"That's the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Iva-
novitch. And at the request of your mamma,
who has sent you a remittance once before in
the same manner through him, he did not refu-
se this time also, and sent instructions to Sem-
yon Semyonovitch some days since to hand
you thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to
come."
"That 'hoping for better to come' is the best
thing you've said, though 'your mamma' is not
bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is he
fully conscious, eh?"
"That's all right. If only he can sign this little
paper."
"He can scrawl his name. Have you got the
book?"
"Yes, here's the book."
"Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I'll hold
you. Take the pen and scribble 'Raskolnikov'
for him. For just now, brother, money is swee-
ter to us than treacle."
"I don't want it," said Raskolnikov, pushing
away the pen.
"Not want it?"
"I won't sign it."
"How the devil can you do without signing it?"
"I don't want... the money."
"Don't want the money! Come, brother, that's
nonsense, I bear witness. Don't trouble, please,
it's only that he is on his travels again. But
that's pretty common with him at all times
though.... You are a man of judgment and we
will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take
his hand and he will sign it. Here."
"But I can come another time."
"No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a
man of judgment.... Now, Rodya, don't keep
your visitor, you see he is waiting," and he ma-
de ready to hold Raskolnikov's hand in earnest.
"Stop, I'll do it alone," said the latter, taking the
pen and signing his name.
The messenger took out the money and went
away.
"Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?"
"Yes," answered Raskolnikov.
"Is there any soup?"
"Some of yesterday's," answered Nastasya, who
was still standing there.
"With potatoes and rice in it?"
"Yes."
"I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us so-
me tea."
"Very well."
Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound
astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror.
He made up his mind to keep quiet and see
what would happen. "I believe I am not wande-
ring. I believe it's reality," he thought.
In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with
the soup, and announced that the tea would be
ready directly. With the soup she brought two
spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for
the beef, and so on. The table was set as it had
not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.
"It would not be amiss, Nastasya,if Praskovya
Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles
of beer. We could empty them."
"Well, you are a cool hand," muttered Nastasya,
and she departed to carry out his orders.
Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained
attention. Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on
the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put
his left arm round Raskolnikov's head, alt-
hough he was able to sit up, and with his right
hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on
it that it might not burn him. But the soup was
only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed one
spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third.
But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of
soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said
that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to
have more.
Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
"And will you have tea?"
"Yes."
"Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for
tea we may venture on without the faculty. But
here is the beer!" He moved back to his chair,
pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and
began eating as though he had not touched
food for three days.
"I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here
every day now," he mumbled with his mouth
full of beef, "and it's all Pashenka, your dear
little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do
anything for me. I don't ask for it, but, of cour-
se, I don't object. And here's Nastasya with the
tea. She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear,
won't you have some beer?"
"Get along with your nonsense!"
"A cup of tea, then?"
"A cup of tea, maybe."
"Pour it out. Stay, I'll pour it out myself. Sit
down."
He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat
on the sofa again. As before, he put his left arm
round the sick man's head, raised him up and
gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each
spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this
process was the principal and most effective
means towards his friend's recovery. Raskolni-
kov said nothing and made no resistance,
though he felt quite strong enough to sit up on
the sofa without support and could not merely
have held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps
could have walked about. But from some
queer, almost animal, cunning he conceived the
idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a
time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in
full possession of his faculties, and meanwhile
listening to find out what was going on. Yet he
could not overcome his sense of repugnance.
After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he sud-
denly released his head, pushed the spoon
away capriciously, and sank back on the pi-
llow. There were actually real pillows under his
head now, down pillows in clean cases, he ob-
served that, too, and took note of it.
"Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-
day to make him some raspberry tea," said Ra-
zumihin, going back to his chair and attacking
his soup and beer again.
"And where is she to get raspberries for you?"
asked Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five
outspread fingers and sipping tea through a
lump of sugar.
"She'll get it at the shop, my dear. You see,
Rodya, all sorts of things have been happening
while you have been laid up. When you de-
camped in that rascally way without leaving
your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to
find you out and punish you. I set to work that
very day. How I ran about making inquiries for
you! This lodging of yours I had forgotten,
though I never remembered it, indeed, because
I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings,
I could only remember it was at the Five Cor-
ners, Harlamov's house. I kept trying to find
that Harlamov's house, and afterwards it tur-
ned out that it was not Harlamov's, but Buch's.
How one muddles up sound sometimes! So I
lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the
address bureau next day, and only fancy, in
two minutes they looked you up! Your name is
down there."
"My name!"
"I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev
they could not find while I was there. Well, it's
a long story. But as soon as I did land on this
place, I soon got to know all your affairs—all,
all, brother, I know everything; Nastasya here
will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Niko-
dim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the hou-
se-porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorie-
vitch, the head clerk in the police office, and,
last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here
knows...."
"He's got round her," Nastasya murmured, smi-
ling slyly.
"Why don't you put the sugar in your tea, Nas-
tasya Nikiforovna?"
"You are a one!" Nastasya cried suddenly,
going off into a giggle. "I am not Nikiforovna,
but Petrovna," she added suddenly, recovering
from her mirth.
"I'll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a
long story short, I was going in for a regular
explosion here to uproot all malignant influen-
ces in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I
had not expected, brother, to find her so... pre-
possessing. Eh, what do you think?"
Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his
eyes fixed upon him, full of alarm.
"And all that could be wished, indeed, in every
respect," Razumihin went on, not at all emba-
rrassed by his silence.
"Ah, the sly dog!" Nastasya shrieked again.
This conversation afforded her unspeakable
delight.
"It's a pity, brother, that you did not set to work
in the right way at first. You ought to have ap-
proached her differently. She is, so to speak, a
most unaccountable character. But we will talk
about her character later.... How could you let
things come to such a pass that she gave up
sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You
must have been mad to sign an I O U. And that
promise of marriage when her daughter, Na-
talya Yegorovna, was alive?... I know all about
it! But I see that's a delicate matter and I am an
ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do
you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so
foolish as you would think at first sight?"
"No," mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away,
but feeling that it was better to keep up the
conversation.
"She isn't, is she?" cried Razumihin, delighted
to get an answer out of him. "But she is not ve-
ry clever either, eh? She is essentially, essentia-
lly an unaccountable character! I am sometimes
quite at a loss, I assure you.... She must be forty;
she says she is thirty-six, and of course she has
every right to say so. But I swear I judge her
intellectually, simply from the metaphysical
point of view; there is a sort of symbolism
sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what
not! I don't understand it! Well, that's all non-
sense. Only, seeing that you are not a student
now and have lost your lessons and your clot-
hes, and that through the young lady's death
she has no need to treat you as a relation, she
suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your
den and dropped all your old relations with
her, she planned to get rid of you. And she's
been cherishing that design a long time, but
was sorry to lose the I O U, for you assured her
yourself that your mother would pay."
"It was base of me to say that.... My mother
herself is almost a beggar... and I told a lie to
keep my lodging... and be fed," Raskolnikov
said loudly and distinctly.
"Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it
is that at that point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a
business man. Pashenka would never have
thought of doing anything on her own account,
she is too retiring; but the business man is by
no means retiring, and first thing he puts the
question, 'Is there any hope of realising the I O
U?' Answer: there is, because he has a mother
who would save her Rodya with her hundred
and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to
starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go
into bondage for his sake. That's what he was
building upon.... Why do you start? I know all
the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear
boy—it's not for nothing that you were so open
with Pashenka when you were her prospective
son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend.... But I
tell you what it is; an honestand sensitive man
is open; and a business man 'listens and goes
on eating' you up. Well, then she gave the I O U
by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and wit-
hout hesitation he made a formal demand for
payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to
blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but
by that time harmony reigned between me and
Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole
affair, engaging that you would pay. I went
security for you, brother. Do you understand?
We called Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles
and got the I O U back from him, and here I
have the honour of presenting it to you. She
trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I
have torn it."
Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolni-
kov looked at him and turned to the wall wit-
hout uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a
twinge.
"I see, brother," he said a moment later, "that I
have been playing the fool again. I thought I
should amuse you with my chatter, and I belie-
ve I have only made you cross."
"Was it you I did not recognise when I was de-
lirious?" Raskolnikov asked, after a moment's
pause without turning his head.
"Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especia-
lly when I brought Zametov one day."
"Zametov? The head clerk? What for?" Raskol-
nikov turned round quickly and fixed his eyes
on Razumihin.
"What's the matter with you?... What are you
upset about? He wanted to make your acquain-
tance because I talked to him a lot about you....
How could I have found out so much except
from him? He is a capital fellow, brother, first-
rate... in his own way, of course. Now we are
friends—see each other almost every day. I
have moved into this part, you know. I have
only just moved. I've been with him to Luise
Ivanovna once or twice.... Do you remember
Luise, Luise Ivanovna?
"Did I say anything in delirium?"
"I should think so! You were beside yourself."
"What did I rave about?"
"What next? What did you rave about? What
people do rave about.... Well, brother, now I
must not lose time. To work." He got up from
the table and took up his cap.
"What did I rave about?"
"How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let
out some secret? Don't worry yourself; you said
nothing about a countess. But you said a lot
about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and
chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some
porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petro-
vitch, the assistant superintendent. And anot-
her thing that was of special interest to you was
your own sock. You whined, 'Give me my
sock.' Zametov hunted all about your room for
your socks, and with his own scented, ring-
bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only
then were you comforted, and for the next
twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing
in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is
most likely somewhere under your quilt at this
moment. And then you asked so piteously for
fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out
what sort of fringe, but we could not make it
out. Now to business! Here are thirty-five rou-
bles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an
account of them in an hour or two. I will let
Zossimov know at the same time, though he
ought to have been here long ago, for it is near-
ly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty
often while I am away, to see whether he wants
a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashen-
ka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!"
"He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he's a deep one!"
said Nastasya as he went out; then she opened
the door and stood listening, but could not re-
sist running downstairs after him. She was very
eager to hear what he would say to the landla-
dy. She was evidently quite fascinated by Ra-
zumihin.
No sooner had she left the room than the sick
man flung off the bedclothes and leapt out of
bed like a madman. With burning, twitching
impatience he had waited for them to be gone
so that he might set to work. But to what work?
Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.
"Good God, only tell me one thing: do they
know of it yet or not? What if they know it and
are only pretending, mocking me while I am
laid up, and then they will come in and tell me
that it's been discovered long ago and that they
have only... What am I to do now? That's what
I've forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten
it all at once, I remembered a minute ago."
He stood in the middle of the room and gazed
in miserable bewilderment about him; he wal-
ked to the door, opened it, listened; but that
was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though
recalling something, he rushed to the corner
where there was a hole under the paper, began
examining it, put his hand into the hole, fum-
bled—but that was not it. He went to the stove,
opened it and began rummaging in the ashes;
the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut
off his pocket were lying there just as he had
thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then
he remembered the sock about which Razu-
mihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay
on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so cove-
red with dust and grime that Zametov could
not have seen anything on it.
"Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am
I sent for to the police office? Where's the noti-
ce? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I loo-
ked at my sock then, too, but now... now I have
been ill. But what did Zametov come for? Why
did Razumihin bring him?" he muttered, hel-
plessly sitting on the sofa again. "What does it
mean? Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I be-
lieve it is real.... Ah, I remember; I must escape!
Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must esca-
pe! Yes... but where? And where are my clot-
hes? I've no boots. They've taken them away!
They've hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is
my coat—they passed that over! And here is
money on the table, thank God! And here's the
I O U... I'll take the money and go and take
another lodging. They won't find me!... Yes, but
the address bureau? They'll find me, Razu-
mihin will find me. Better escape altogether...
far away... to America, and let them do their
worst! And take the I O U... it would be of use
there.... What else shall I take? They think I am
ill! They don't know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I
could see by their eyes that they know all about
it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if
they have set a watch there—policemen! What's
this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle,
cold!"
He snatched up the bottle, which still contained
a glassful of beer, and gulped it down with
relish, as though quenching a flame in his
breast. But in another minute the beer had gone
to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shi-
ver ran down his spine. He lay down and pu-
lled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent
thoughts grew more and more disconnected,
and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came
upon him. With a sense of comfort he nestled
his head into the pillow, wrapped more closely
about him the soft, wadded quilt which had
replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed sof-
tly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing
sleep.
He woke up, hearing someone come in. He
opened his eyes and saw Razumihin standing
in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in
or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa
and gazed at him, as though trying to recall
something.
"Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya,
bring in the parcel!" Razumihin shouted down
the stairs. "You shall have the account directly."
"What time is it?" asked Raskolnikov, looking
round uneasily.
"Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it's almost
evening, it will be six o'clock directly. You have
slept more than six hours."
"Good heavens! Have I?"
"And why not? It will do you good. What's the
hurry? A tryst, is it? We've all time before us.
I've been waiting for the last three hours for
you; I've been up twice and found you asleep.
I've called on Zossimov twice; not at home,
only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And
I've been outon my own business, too. You
know I've been moving to-day, moving with
my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now.
But that's no matter, to business. Give me the
parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And
how do you feel now, brother?"
"I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have
you been here long?"
"I tell you I've been waiting for the last three
hours."
"No, before."
"How do you mean?"
"How long have you been coming here?"
"Why I told you all about it this morning. Don't
you remember?"
Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed
like a dream to him. He could not remember
alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.
"Hm!" said the latter, "he has forgotten. I fan-
cied then that you were not quite yourself.
Now you are better for your sleep.... You really
look much better. First-rate! Well, to business.
Look here, my dear boy."
He began untying the bundle, which evidently
interested him.
"Believe me, brother, this is something specially
near my heart. For we must make a man of
you. Let's begin from the top. Do you see this
cap?" he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly
good though cheap and ordinary cap. "Let me
try it on."
"Presently, afterwards," said Raskolnikov, wa-
ving it off pettishly.
"Come, Rodya, my boy, don't oppose it, after-
wards will be too late; and I shan't sleep all
night, for I bought it by guess, without measu-
re. Just right!" he cried triumphantly, fitting it
on, "just your size! A proper head-covering is
the first thing in dress and a recommendation
in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is
always obliged to take off his pudding basin
when he goes into any public place where other
people wear their hats or caps. People think he
does it from slavish politeness, but it's simply
because he is ashamed of his bird's nest; he is
such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are
two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston"—
he took from the corner Raskolnikov's old, bat-
tered hat, which for some unknown reason, he
called a Palmerston—"or this jewel! Guess the
price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it,
Nastasya!" he said, turning to her, seeing that
Raskolnikov did not speak.
"Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say," answe-
red Nastasya.
"Twenty copecks, silly!" he cried, offended.
"Why, nowadays you would cost more than
that—eighty copecks! And that only because it
has been worn. And it's bought on condition
that when's it's worn out, they will give you
another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now
let us pass to the United States of America, as
they called them at school. I assure you I am
proud of these breeches," and he exhibited to
Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of
grey woollen material. "No holes, no spots, and
quite respectable, although a little worn; and a
waistcoat to match, quite in the fashion. And its
being worn really is an improvement, it's softer,
smoother.... You see, Rodya, to my thinking,
the great thing for getting on in the world is
always to keep to the seasons; if you don't insist
on having asparagus in January, you keep your
money in your purse; and it's the same with
this purchase. It's summer now, so I've been
buying summer things—warmer materials will
be wanted for autumn, so you will have to
throw these away in any case... especially as
they will be done for by then from their own
lack of coherence if not your higher standard of
luxury. Come, price them! What do you say?
Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And remem-
ber the condition: if you wear these out, you
will have another suit for nothing! They only
do business on that system at Fedyaev's; if
you've bought a thing once, you are satisfied
for life, for you will never go there again of
your own free will. Now for the boots. What do
you say? You see that they are a bit worn, but
they'll last a couple of months, for it's foreign
work and foreign leather; the secretary of the
English Embassy sold them last week—he had
only worn them six days, but he was very short
of cash. Price—a rouble and a half. A bargain?"
"But perhaps they won't fit," observed Nastas-
ya.
"Not fit? Just look!" and he pulled out of his
pocket Raskolnikov's old, broken boot, stiffly
coated with dry mud. "I did not go empty-
handed—they took the size from this monster.
We all did our best. And as to your linen, your
landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with
are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable
front.... Well now then, eighty copecks the cap,
two roubles twenty-five copecks the suit—
together three roubles five copecks—a rouble
and a half for the boots—for, you see, they are
very good—and that makes four roubles fifty-
five copecks; five roubles for the underclot-
hes—they were bought in the lo—which makes
exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-
five copecks change in coppers. Will you take
it? And so, Rodya, you are set up with a com-
plete new rig-out, for your overcoat will serve,
and even has a style of its own. That comes
from getting one's clothes from Sharmer's! As
for your socks and other things, I leave them to
you; we've twenty-five roubles left. And as for
Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don't
you worry. I tell you she'll trust you for anyt-
hing. And now, brother, let me change your
linen, for I daresay you will throw off your ill-
ness with your shirt."
"Let me be! I don't want to!" Raskolnikov wa-
ved him off. He had listened with disgust to
Razumihin's efforts to be playful about his pur-
chases.
"Come, brother, don't tell me I've been trudging
around for nothing," Razumihin insisted. "Nas-
tasya, don't be bashful, but help me—that's it,"
and in spite of Raskolnikov's resistance he
changed his linen. The latter sank back on the
pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.
"It will be long before I get rid of them," he
thought. "What money was all that bought
with?" he asked at last, gazing at the wall.
"Money? Why, your own, what the messenger
brought from Vahrushin, your mother sent it.
Have you forgotten that, too?"
"I remember now," said Raskolnikov after a
long, sullen silence. Razumihin looked at him,
frowning and uneasy.
The door opened and a tall, stout man whose
appearance seemed familiar to Raskolnikov
came in.
CHAPTER IV
Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, co-
lourless, clean-shaven face and straight flaxen
hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on
his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on
a light grey fashionable loose coat, light sum-
mer trousers, and everything about him loose,
fashionable and spick and span; his linen was
irreproachable, his watch-chain was massive. In
manner he was slow and, as it were, noncha-
lant, and at the same time studiously free and
easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-
importance, but it was apparent at every ins-
tant. All his acquaintances found him tedious,
but said he was clever at his work.
"I've been to you twice to-day, brother. You see,
he's come to himself," cried Razumihin.
"I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?" said
Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him care-
fully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa,
he settled himself as comfortably as he could.
"He is still depressed," Razumihin went on.
"We've just changed his linen and he almost
cried."
"That's very natural; you might have put it off if
he did not wish it.... His pulse is first-rate. Is
your head still aching, eh?"
"I am well, I am perfectly well!" Raskolnikov
declared positively and irritably. He raised
himself on the sofa and looked at them with
glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow
at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov wat-
ched him intently.
"Very good.... Going on all right," he said lazily.
"Has he eaten anything?"
They told him, and asked what he might have.
"He may have anything... soup, tea... mush-
rooms and cucumbers, of course, you must not
give him; he'd better not have meat either,
and... but no need to tell you that!" Razumihin
and he looked at each other."No more medici-
ne or anything. I'll look at him again to-
morrow. Perhaps, to-day even... but never
mind..."
"To-morrow evening I shall take him for a
walk," said Razumihin. "We are going to the
Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Crys-
tal."
"I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I
don't know... a little, maybe... but we'll see."
"Ach, what a nuisance! I've got a house-
warming party to-night; it's only a step from
here. Couldn't he come? He could lie on the
sofa. You are coming?" Razumihin said to Zos-
simov. "Don't forget, you promised."
"All right, only rather later. What are you going
to do?"
"Oh, nothing—tea, vodka, herrings. There will
be a pie... just our friends."
"And who?"
"All neighbours here, almost all new friends,
except my old uncle, and he is new too—he
only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to
some business of his. We meet once in five
years."
"What is he?"
"He's been stagnating all his life as a district
postmaster; gets a little pension. He is sixty-
five—not worth talking about.... But I am fond
of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the In-
vestigation Department here... But you know
him."
"Is he a relation of yours, too?"
"A very distant one. But why are you scowling?
Because you quarrelled once, won't you come
then?"
"I don't care a damn for him."
"So much the better. Well, there will be some
students, a teacher, a government clerk, a musi-
cian, an officer and Zametov."
"Do tell me, please, what you or he"—Zossimov
nodded at Raskolnikov—"can have in common
with this Zametov?"
"Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You
are worked by principles, as it were by springs;
you won't venture to turn round on your own
account. If a man is a nice fellow, that's the only
principle I go upon. Zametov is a delightful
person."
"Though he does take bribes."
"Well, he does! and what of it? I don't care if he
does take bribes," Razumihin cried with unna-
tural irritability. "I don't praise him for taking
bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own
way! But if one looks at men in all ways—are
there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I
shouldn't be worth a baked onion myself... per-
haps with you thrown in."
"That's too little; I'd give two for you."
"And I wouldn't give more than one for you.
No more of your jokes! Zametov is no more
than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must
draw him not repel him. You'll never improve a
man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has
to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you pro-
gressive dullards! You don't understand. You
harm yourselves running another man down....
But if you want to know, we really have so-
mething in common."
"I should like to know what."
"Why, it's all about a house-painter.... We are
getting him out of a mess! Though indeed the-
re's nothing to fear now. The matter is absolute-
ly self-evident. We only put on steam."
"A painter?"
"Why, haven't I told you about it? I only told
you the beginning then about the murder of the
old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is
mixed up in it..."
"Oh, I heard about that murder before and was
rather interested in it... partly... for one rea-
son.... I read about it in the papers, too...."
"Lizaveta was murdered, too," Nastasya blur-
ted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She
remained in the room all the time, standing by
the door listening.
"Lizaveta," murmured Raskolnikov hardly au-
dibly.
"Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn't you
know her? She used to come here. She mended
a shirt for you, too."
Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the
dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy,
white flower with brown lines on it and began
examining how many petals there were in it,
how many scallops in the petals and how many
lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as life-
less as though they had been cut off. He did not
attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the
flower.
"But what about the painter?" Zossimov inte-
rrupted Nastasya's chatter with marked dis-
pleasure. She sighed and was silent.
"Why, he was accused of the murder," Razu-
mihin went on hotly.
"Was there evidence against him then?"
"Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evi-
dence, and that's what we have to prove. It was
just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and
Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it's all
done, it makes one sick, though it's not one's
business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night....
By the way, Rodya, you've heard about the
business already; it happened before you were
ill, the day before you fainted at the police offi-
ce while they were talking about it."
Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He
did not stir.
"But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a
busybody you are!" Zossimov observed.
"Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,"
shouted Razumihin, bringing his fist down on
the table. "What's the most offensive is not their
lying—one can always forgive lying—lying is a
delightful thing, for it leads to truth—what is
offensive is that they lie and worship their own
lying.... I respect Porfiry, but... What threw
them out at first? The door was locked, and
when they came back with the porter it was
open. So it followed that Koch and Pestryakov
were the murderers—that was their logic!"
"But don't excite yourself; they simply detained
them, they could not help that.... And, by the
way, I've met that man Koch. He used to buy
unredeemed pledges from the old woman?
Eh?"
"Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts,
too. He makes a profession of it. But enough of
him! Do you know what makes me angry? It's
their sickening rotten, petrified routine.... And
this case might be the means of introducing a
new method. One can show from the psycholo-
gical data alone how to get on the track of the
real man. 'We have facts,' they say. But facts are
not everything—at least half the business lies in
how you interpret them!"
"Can you interpret them, then?"
"Anyway, one can't hold one's tongue when
one has a feeling, a tangible feeling, that one
might be a help if only.... Eh! Do you know the
details of the case?"
"I am waiting to hear about the painter."
"Oh, yes! Well, here's the story. Early on the
third day after the murder, when they were still
dandling Koch and Pestryakov—though they
accounted for every step they took and it was
as plain as a pikestaff-an unexpected fact tur-
ned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a
dram-shop facing the house, brought to the
police office a jeweller's case containing some
gold ear-rings, and told a long rigamarole. 'The
day before yesterday, just after eight o'clock'—
mark the day and the hour!—'a journeyman
house-painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see
me already that day, brought me this box of
gold ear-rings and stones, and asked me to give
him two roubles for them. When I asked him
where he got them, he said that he picked them
up in the street. I did not ask him anything mo-
re.' I am telling you Dushkin's story. 'I gave him
a note'—a rouble that is—'for I thought if he
did not pawn it with me he would with anot-
her. It would all come to the same thing—he'd
spend it on drink, so the thing had better be
with me. The further you hide it the quicker
you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I
hear any rumours, I'll take it to the police.' Of
course, that's all taradiddle; he lies like a horse,
for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker
and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not
cheat Nikolay out of a thirty-rouble trinket in
order to give it to the police. He was simply
afraid. But no matter, to return to Dushkin's
story. 'I've known this peasant, Nikolay De-
mentyev, from a child; he comes from the same
province and district of Zaraïsk, we are both
Ryazan men. And though Nikolay is not a
drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he had a job in
that house, painting work with Dmitri, who
comes from the same village, too. As soon as he
got the rouble he changedit, had a couple of
glasses, took his change and went out. But I did
not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day
I heard that someone had murdered Alyona
Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna,
with an axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious
about the ear-rings at once, for I knew the
murdered woman lent money on pledges. I
went to the house, and began to make careful
inquiries without saying a word to anyone.
First of all I asked, "Is Nikolay here?" Dmitri
told me that Nikolay had gone off on the spree;
he had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed
in the house about ten minutes, and went out
again. Dmitri didn't see him again and is finis-
hing the job alone. And their job is on the same
staircase as the murder, on the second floor.
When I heard all that I did not say a word to
anyone'—that's Dushkin's tale—'but I found
out what I could about the murder, and went
home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at
eight o'clock this morning'—that was the third
day, you understand—'I saw Nikolay coming
in, not sober, though not to say very drunk—he
could understand what was said to him. He sat
down on the bench and did not speak. There
was only one stranger in the bar and a man I
knew asleep on a bench and our two boys.
"Have you seen Dmitri?" said I. "No, I haven't,"
said he. "And you've not been here either?"
"Not since the day before yesterday," said he.
"And where did you sleep last night?" "In Pes-
ki, with the Kolomensky men." "And where did
you get those ear-rings?" I asked. "I found them
in the street," and the way he said it was a bit
queer; he did not look at me. "Did you hear
what happened that very evening, at that very
hour, on that same staircase?" said I. "No," said
he, "I had not heard," and all the while he was
listening, his eyes were staring out of his head
and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all
about it and he took his hat and began getting
up. I wanted to keep him. "Wait a bit, Nikolay,"
said I, "won't you have a drink?" And I signed
to the boy to hold the door, and I came out
from behind the bar; but he darted out and
down the street to the turning at a run. I have
not seen him since. Then my doubts were at an
end—it was his doing, as clear as could be....'"
"I should think so," said Zossimov.
"Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought
high and low for Nikolay; they detained Dush-
kin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was
arrested; the Kolomensky men also were tur-
ned inside out. And the day before yesterday
they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of
the town. He had gone there, taken the silver
cross off his neck and asked for a dram for it.
They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards
the woman went to the cowshed, and through a
crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining
he had made a noose of his sash from the beam,
stood on a block of wood, and was trying to
put his neck in the noose. The woman scree-
ched her hardest; people ran in. 'So that's what
you are up to!' 'Take me,' he says, 'to such-and-
such a police officer; I'll confess everything.'
Well, they took him to that police station—that
is here—with a suitable escort. So they asked
him this and that, how old he is, 'twenty-two,'
and so on. At the question, 'When you were
working with Dmitri, didn't you see anyone on
the staircase at such-and-such a time?'—
answer: 'To be sure folks may have gone up
and down, but I did not notice them.' 'And
didn't you hear anything, any noise, and so on?'
'We heard nothing special.' 'And did you hear,
Nikolay, that on the same day Widow So-and-
so and her sister were murdered and robbed?' 'I
never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of
it was from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before
yesterday.' 'And where did you find the ear-
rings?' 'I found them on the pavement.' 'Why
didn't you go to work with Dmitri the other
day?' 'Because I was drinking.' 'And where we-
re you drinking?' 'Oh, in such-and-such a pla-
ce.' 'Why did you run away from Dushkin's?'
'Because I was awfully frightened.' 'What were
you frightened of?' 'That I should be accused.'
'How could you be frightened, if you felt free
from guilt?' Now, Zossimov, you may not be-
lieve me, that question was put literally in tho-
se words. I know it for a fact, it was repeated to
me exactly! What do you say to that?"
"Well, anyway, there's the evidence."
"I am not talking of the evidence now, I am
talking about that question, of their own idea of
themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squee-
zed him and he confessed: 'I did not find it in
the street, but in the flat where I was painting
with Dmitri.' 'And how was that?' 'Why, Dmitri
and I were painting there all day, and we were
just getting ready to go, and Dmitri took a
brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I
after him. I ran after him, shouting my hardest,
and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right
against the porter and some gentlemen—and
how many gentlemen were there I don't re-
member. And the porter swore at me, and the
other porter swore, too, and the porter's wife
came out, and swore at us, too; and a gentle-
man came into the entry with a lady, and he
swore at us, too, for Dmitri and I lay right
across the way. I got hold of Dmitri's hair and
knocked him down and began beating him.
And Dmitri, too, caught me by the hair and
began beating me. But we did it all not for tem-
per but in a friendly way, for sport. And then
Dmitri escaped and ran into the street, and I
ran after him; but I did not catch him, and went
back to the flat alone; I had to clear up my
things. I began putting them together, expec-
ting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage,
in the corner by the door, I stepped on the box.
I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I took
off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid
them, and in the box were the ear-rings....'"
"Behind the door? Lying behind the door?
Behind the door?" Raskolnikov cried suddenly,
staring with a blank look of terror at Razu-
mihin, and he slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning
on his hand.
"Yes... why? What's the matter? What's wrong?"
Razumihin, too, got up from his seat.
"Nothing," Raskolnikov answered faintly, tur-
ning to the wall. All were silent for a while.
"He must have waked from a dream," Razu-
mihin said at last, looking inquiringly at Zos-
simov. The latter slightly shook his head.
"Well, go on," said Zossimov. "What next?"
"What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings,
forgetting Dmitri and everything, he took up
his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know,
got a rouble from him. He told a lie saying he
found them in the street, and went off drinking.
He keeps repeating his old story about the
murder: 'I know nothing of it, never heard of it
till the day before yesterday.' 'And why didn't
you come to the police till now?' 'I was frighte-
ned.' 'And why did you try to hang yourself?'
'From anxiety.' 'What anxiety?' 'That I should
be accused of it.' Well, that's the whole story.
And now what do you suppose they deduced
from that?"
"Why, there's no supposing. There's a clue,
such as it is, a fact. You wouldn't have your
painter set free?"
"Now they've simply taken him for the murde-
rer. They haven't a shadow of doubt."
"That's nonsense. You are excited. But what
about the ear-rings? You must admit that, if on
the very same day and hour ear-rings from the
old woman's box have come into Nikolay's
hands, they must have come there somehow.
That's a good deal in such a case."
"How did they get there? How did they get
there?" cried Razumihin. "How can you, a doc-
tor, whose duty it is to study man and who has
more opportunity than anyone else for stud-
ying human nature—how can you fail to see
the character of the man in the whole story?
Don't you see at once that the answers he has
given in the examination are the holy truth?
They came into his hand precisely as he has
told us—he stepped on the box and picked it
up."
"The holy truth! But didn'the own himself that
he told a lie at first?"
"Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and
Koch and Pestryakov and the other porter and
the wife of the first porter and the woman who
was sitting in the porter's lodge and the man
Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab at that
minute and went in at the entry with a lady on
his arm, that is eight or ten witnesses, agree
that Nikolay had Dmitri on the ground, was
lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung
on to his hair, beating him, too. They lay right
across the way, blocking the thoroughfare.
They were sworn at on all sides while they 'like
children' (the very words of the witnesses) we-
re falling over one another, squealing, fighting
and laughing with the funniest faces, and, cha-
sing one another like children, they ran into the
street. Now take careful note. The bodies ups-
tairs were warm, you understand, warm when
they found them! If they, or Nikolay alone, had
murdered them and broken open the boxes, or
simply taken part in the robbery, allow me to
ask you one question: do their state of mind,
their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling
at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish
cunning, robbery? They'd just killed them, not
five or ten minutes before, for the bodies were
still warm, and at once, leaving the flat open,
knowing that people would go there at once,
flinging away their booty, they rolled about like
children, laughing and attracting general atten-
tion. And there are a dozen witnesses to swear
to that!"
"Of course it is strange! It's impossible, indeed,
but..."
"No, brother, no buts. And if the ear-rings being
found in Nikolay's hands at the very day and
hour of the murder constitutes an important
piece of circumstantial evidence against him—
although the explanation given by him ac-
counts for it, and therefore it does not tell se-
riously against him—one must take into consi-
deration the facts which prove him innocent,
especially as they are facts that cannot be denied.
And do you suppose, from the character of our
legal system, that they will accept, or that they
are in a position to accept, this fact—resting
simply on a psychological impossibility—as
irrefutable and conclusively breaking down the
circumstantial evidence for the prosecution?
No, they won't accept it, they certainly won't,
because they found the jewel-case and the man
tried to hang himself, 'which he could not have
done if he hadn't felt guilty.' That's the point,
that's what excites me, you must understand!"
"Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to
ask you; what proof is there that the box came
from the old woman?"
"That's been proved," said Razumihin with ap-
parent reluctance, frowning. "Koch recognised
the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner,
who proved conclusively that it was his."
"That's bad. Now another point. Did anyone
see Nikolay at the time that Koch and Pestrya-
kov were going upstairs at first, and is there no
evidence about that?"
"Nobody did see him," Razumihin answered
with vexation. "That's the worst of it. Even
Koch and Pestryakov did not notice them on
their way upstairs, though, indeed, their evi-
dence could not have been worth much. They
said they saw the flat was open, and that there
must be work going on in it, but they took no
special notice and could not remember whether
there actually were men at work in it."
"Hm!... So the only evidence for the defence is
that they were beating one another and laug-
hing. That constitutes a strong presumption,
but... How do you explain the facts yourself?"
"How do I explain them? What is there to ex-
plain? It's clear. At any rate, the direction in
which explanation is to be sought is clear, and
the jewel-case points to it. The real murderer
dropped those ear-rings. The murderer was
upstairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestryakov
knocked at the door. Koch, like an ass, did not
stay at the door; so the murderer popped out
and ran down, too; for he had no other way of
escape. He hid from Koch, Pestryakov and the
porter in the flat when Nikolay and Dmitri had
just run out of it. He stopped there while the
porter and others were going upstairs, waited
till they were out of hearing, and then went
calmly downstairs at the very minute when
Dmitri and Nikolay ran out into the street and
there was no one in the entry; possibly he was
seen, but not noticed. There are lots of people
going in and out. He must have dropped the
ear-rings out of his pocket when he stood
behind the door, and did not notice he dropped
them, because he had other things to think of.
The jewel-case is a conclusive proof that he did
stand there.... That's how I explain it."
"Too clever! No, my boy, you're too clever. That
beats everything."
"But, why, why?"
"Why, because everything fits too well... it's too
melodramatic."
"A-ach!" Razumihin was exclaiming, but at that
moment the door opened and a personage ca-
me in who was a stranger to all present.
CHAPTER V
This was a gentleman no longer young, of a
stiff and portly appearance, and a cautious and
sour countenance. He began by stopping short
in the doorway, staring about him with offen-
sive and undisguised astonishment, as though
asking himself what sort of place he had come
to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of
being alarmed and almost affronted, he scan-
ned Raskolnikov's low and narrow "cabin."
With the same amazement he stared at Raskol-
nikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwas-
hed, on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly
at him. Then with the same deliberation he
scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and
unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him
boldly and inquiringly in the face without ri-
sing from his seat. A constrained silence lasted
for a couple of minutes, and then, as might be
expected, some scene-shifting took place. Re-
flecting, probably from certain fairly unmista-
kable signs, that he would get nothing in this
"cabin" by attempting to overawe them, the
gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly,
though with some severity, emphasising every
syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov:
"Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student,
or formerly a student?"
Zossimov made a slight movement, and would
have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated
him.
"Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you
want?"
This familiar "what do you want" seemed to cut
the ground from the feet of the pompous gen-
tleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but
checked himself in time and turned to Zossi-
mov again.
"This is Raskolnikov," mumbled Zossimov,
nodding towards him. Then he gave a prolon-
ged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possi-
ble. Then he lazily put his hand into his waist-
coat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a
round hunter's case, opened it, looked at it and
as slowly and lazily proceeded to put it back.
Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on
his back, gazing persistently, though without
understanding, at the stranger. Now that his
face was turned away from the strange flower
on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore a
look of anguish, as though he had just under-
gone an agonising operation or just been taken
from the rack. But the new-comer gradually
began to arouse his attention, then his wonder,
then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossi-
mov said "This is Raskolnikov" he jumped up
quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost de-
fiant, but weak and breaking, voice articulated:
"Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?"
The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced
impressively:
"Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have rea-
son to hope that my name is not wholly unk-
nown to you?"
But Raskolnikov, who had expected something
quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at
him, making no reply, as though he heard the
name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time.
"Is it possible that you can up to the present
have received no information?" asked Pyotr
Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted.
In reply Raskolnikov sank languidlyback on
the pillow, put his hands behind his head and
gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came
into Luzhin's face. Zossimov and Razumihin
stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and
at last he showed unmistakable signs of emba-
rrassment.
"I had presumed and calculated," he faltered,
"that a letter posted more than ten days, if not a
fortnight ago..."
"I say, why are you standing in the doorway?"
Razumihin interrupted suddenly. "If you've
something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you
are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here's a
chair, thread your way in!"
He moved his chair back from the table, made a
little space between the table and his knees, and
waited in a rather cramped position for the
visitor to "thread his way in." The minute was
so chosen that it was impossible to refuse, and
the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying
and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat
down, looking suspiciously at Razumihin.
"No need to be nervous," the latter blurted out.
"Rodya has been ill for the last five days and
delirious for three, but now he is recovering
and has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who
has just had a look at him. I am a comrade of
Rodya's, like him, formerly a student, and now
I am nursing him; so don't you take any notice
of us, but go on with your business."
"Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid
by my presence and conversation?" Pyotr Pe-
trovitch asked of Zossimov.
"N-no," mumbled Zossimov; "you may amuse
him." He yawned again.
"He has been conscious a long time, since the
morning," went on Razumihin, whose familiari-
ty seemed so much like unaffected good-nature
that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be more cheer-
ful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby and
impudent person had introduced himself as a
student.
"Your mamma," began Luzhin.
"Hm!" Razumihin cleared his throat loudly.
Luzhin looked at him inquiringly.
"That's all right, go on."
Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.
"Your mamma had commenced a letter to you
while I was sojourning in her neighbourhood.
On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few
days to elapse before coming to see you, in or-
der that I might be fully assured that you were
in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my
astonishment..."
"I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly
with impatient vexation. "So you are the fiancé?
I know, and that's enough!"
There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch's
being offended this time, but he said nothing.
He made a violent effort to understand what it
all meant. There was a moment's silence.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a
little towards him when he answered, began
suddenly staring at him again with marked
curiosity, as though he had not had a good look
at him yet, or as though something new had
struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose
to stare at him. There certainly was something
peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch's whole appearan-
ce, something which seemed to justify the title
of "fiancé" so unceremoniously applied to him.
In the first place, it was evident, far too much
so indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made ea-
ger use of his few days in the capital to get
himself up and rig himself out in expectation of
his betrothed—a perfectly innocent and per-
missible proceeding, indeed. Even his own,
perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the
agreeable improvement in his appearance
might have been forgiven in such circumstan-
ces, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up
the rôle of fiancé. All his clothes were fresh
from the tailor's and were all right, except for
being too new and too distinctly appropriate.
Even the stylish new round hat had the same
significance. Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too res-
pectfully and held it too carefully in his hands.
The exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real Lou-
vain, told the same tale, if only from the fact of
his not wearing them, but carrying them in his
hand for show. Light and youthful colours pre-
dominated in Pyotr Petrovitch's attire. He wore
a charming summer jacket of a fawn shade,
light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same, new
and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambric
with pink stripes on it, and the best of it was,
this all suited Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh
and even handsome face looked younger than
his forty-five years at all times. His dark, mut-
ton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting
on both sides, growing thickly upon his shi-
ning, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, touched
here and there with grey, though it had been
combed and curled at a hairdresser's, did not
give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair
usually does, by inevitably suggesting a Ger-
man on his wedding-day. If there really was
something unpleasing and repulsive in his rat-
her good-looking and imposing countenance, it
was due to quite other causes. After scanning
Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov smi-
led malignantly, sank back on the pillow and
stared at the ceiling as before.
But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed
to determine to take no notice of their oddities.
"I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this
situation," he began, again breaking the silence
with an effort. "If I had been aware of your ill-
ness I should have come earlier. But you know
what business is. I have, too, a very important
legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other
preoccupations which you may well conjecture.
I am expecting your mamma and sister any
minute."
Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed
about to speak; his face showed some excite-
ment. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but as
nothing followed, he went on:
"... Any minute. I have found a lodging for
them on their arrival."
"Where?" asked Raskolnikov weakly.
"Very near here, in Bakaleyev's house."
"That's in Voskresensky," put in Razumihin.
"There are two storeys of rooms, let by a mer-
chant called Yushin; I've been there."
"Yes, rooms..."
"A disgusting place—filthy, stinking and,
what's more, of doubtful character. Things have
happened there, and there are all sorts of queer
people living there. And I went there about a
scandalous business. It's cheap, though..."
"I could not, of course, find out so much about
it, for I am a stranger in Petersburg myself,"
Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. "However, the
two rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for
so short a time... I have already taken a perma-
nent, that is, our future flat," he said, addres-
sing Raskolnikov, "and I am having it done up.
And meanwhile I am myself cramped for room
in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyono-
vitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lip-
pevechsel; it was he who told me of Bakaleyev's
house, too..."
"Lebeziatnikov?" said Raskolnikov slowly, as if
recalling something.
"Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a
clerk in the Ministry. Do you know him?"
"Yes... no," Raskolnikov answered.
"Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I
was once his guardian.... A very nice young
man and advanced. I like to meet young peo-
ple: one learns new things from them." Luzhin
looked round hopefully at them all.
"How do you mean?" asked Razumihin.
"In the most serious and essential matters,"
Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as though delighted at
the question. "You see, it's ten years since I visi-
ted Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas
have reached us in the provinces, but to see it
all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And
it's my notion that you observe and learn most
by watching the younger generation. And I
confess I am delighted..."
"At what?"
"Your question is a wide one. I may be mista-
ken, but I fancy I find clearer views, more, so to
say, criticism, more practicality..."
"That's true," Zossimov let drop.
"Nonsense! There's no practicality." Razumihin
flew at him. "Practicality is a difficult thing to
find; it does not drop down from heaven. And
for the last two hundred years we have been
divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you
like, are fermenting," he said to Pyotr Petro-
vitch, "and desirefor good exists, though it's in
a childish form, and honesty you may find,
although there are crowds of brigands. Any-
way, there's no practicality. Practicality goes
well shod."
"I don't agree with you," Pyotr Petrovitch re-
plied, with evident enjoyment. "Of course, peo-
ple do get carried away and make mistakes, but
one must have indulgence; those mistakes are
merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause
and of abnormal external environment. If little
has been done, the time has been but short; of
means I will not speak. It's my personal view, if
you care to know, that something has been ac-
complished already. New valuable ideas, new
valuable works are circulating in the place of
our old dreamy and romantic authors. Literatu-
re is taking a maturer form, many injurious
prejudice have been rooted up and turned into
ridicule.... In a word, we have cut ourselves off
irrevocably from the past, and that, to my thin-
king, is a great thing..."
"He's learnt it by heart to show off!" Raskolni-
kov pronounced suddenly.
"What?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching
his words; but he received no reply.
"That's all true," Zossimov hastened to interpo-
se.
"Isn't it so?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing
affably at Zossimov. "You must admit," he went
on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of
triumph and superciliousness—he almost ad-
ded "young man"—"that there is an advance,
or, as they say now, progress in the name of
science and economic truth..."
"A commonplace."
"No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance,
if I were told, 'love thy neighbour,' what came
of it?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps with
excessive haste. "It came to my tearing my coat
in half to share with my neighbour and we both
were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has
it, 'Catch several hares and you won't catch
one.' Science now tells us, love yourself before
all men, for everything in the world rests on
self-interest. You love yourself and manage
your own affairs properly and your coat re-
mains whole. Economic truth adds that the
better private affairs are organised in society—
the more whole coats, so to say—the firmer are
its foundations and the better is the common
welfare organised too. Therefore, in acquiring
wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am
acquiring, so to speak, for all, and helping to
bring to pass my neighbour's getting a little
more than a torn coat; and that not from priva-
te, personal liberality, but as a consequence of
the general advance. The idea is simple, but
unhappily it has been a long time reaching us,
being hindered by idealism and sentimentality.
And yet it would seem to want very little wit to
perceive it..."
"Excuse me, I've very little wit myself," Razu-
mihin cut in sharply, "and so let us drop it. I
began this discussion with an object, but I've
grown so sick during the last three years of this
chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant
flow of commonplaces, always the same, that,
by Jove, I blush even when other people talk
like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt, to ex-
hibit your acquirements; and I don't blame you,
that's quite pardonable. I only wanted to find
out what sort of man you are, for so many uns-
crupulous people have got hold of the progres-
sive cause of late and have so distorted in their
own interests everything they touched, that the
whole cause has been dragged in the mire.
That's enough!"
"Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, affronted, and
speaking with excessive dignity. "Do you mean
to suggest so unceremoniously that I too..."
"Oh, my dear sir... how could I?... Come, that's
enough," Razumihin concluded, and he turned
abruptly to Zossimov to continue their pre-
vious conversation.
Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept
the disavowal. He made up his mind to take
leave in another minute or two.
"I trust our acquaintance," he said, addressing
Raskolnikov, "may, upon your recovery and in
view of the circumstances of which you are
aware, become closer... Above all, I hope for
your return to health..."
Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr
Petrovitch began getting up from his chair.
"One of her customers must have killed her,"
Zossimov declared positively.
"Not a doubt of it," replied Razumihin. "Porfiry
doesn't give his opinion, but is examining all
who have left pledges with her there."
"Examining them?" Raskolnikov asked aloud.
"Yes. What then?"
"Nothing."
"How does he get hold of them?" asked Zossi-
mov.
"Koch has given the names of some of them,
other names are on the wrappers of the pledges
and some have come forward of themselves."
"It must have been a cunning and practised
ruffian! The boldness of it! The coolness!"
"That's just what it wasn't!" interposed Razu-
mihin. "That's what throws you all off the scent.
But I maintain that he is not cunning, not prac-
tised, and probably this was his first crime! The
supposition that it was a calculated crime and a
cunning criminal doesn't work. Suppose him to
have been inexperienced, and it's clear that it
was only a chance that saved him—and chance
may do anything. Why, he did not foresee obs-
tacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work?
He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles,
stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the
old woman's trunks, her rags—and they found
fifteen hundred roubles, besides notes, in a box
in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know
how to rob; he could only murder. It was his
first crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost
his head. And he got off more by luck than
good counsel!"
"You are talking of the murder of the old pawn-
broker, I believe?" Pyotr Petrovitch put in, ad-
dressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and
gloves in hand, but before departing he felt
disposed to throw off a few more intellectual
phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a
favourable impression and his vanity overcame
his prudence.
"Yes. You've heard of it?"
"Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood."
"Do you know the details?"
"I can't say that; but another circumstance inte-
rests me in the case—the whole question, so to
say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been
greatly on the increase among the lower classes
during the last five years, not to speak of the
cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what
strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the
higher classes, too, crime is increasing propor-
tionately. In one place one hears of a student's
robbing the mail on the high road; in another
place people of good social position forge false
banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has
been captured who used to forge lottery tickets,
and one of the ringleaders was a lecturer in
universal history; then our secretary abroad
was murdered from some obscure motive of
gain.... And if this old woman, the pawnbroker,
has been murdered by someone of a higher
class in society—for peasants don't pawn gold
trinkets—how are we to explain this demorali-
sation of the civilised part of our society?"
"There are many economic changes," put in
Zossimov.
"How are we to explain it?" Razumihin caught
him up. "It might be explained by our invetera-
te impracticality."
"How do you mean?"
"What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to
make to the question why he was forging no-
tes? 'Everybody is getting rich one way or
another, so I want to make haste to get rich too.'
I don't remember the exact words, but the ups-
hot was that he wants money for nothing, wit-
hout waiting or working! We've grown used to
having everything ready-made, to walking on
crutches, to having our food chewed for us.
Then the great hour struck,[*] and every man
showed himself in his true colours."
 [*] The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is
meant.
 —TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.
"But morality? And so to speak, principles..."
"But why do you worry about it?" Raskolnikov
interposed suddenly. "It's in accordance with
your theory!"
"In accordance with my theory?"
"Why, carry out logically the theory you were
advocating just now, andit follows that people
may be killed..."
"Upon my word!" cried Luzhin.
"No, that's not so," put in Zossimov.
Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twit-
ching upper lip, breathing painfully.
"There's a measure in all things," Luzhin went
on superciliously. "Economic ideas are not an
incitement to murder, and one has but to sup-
pose..."
"And is it true," Raskolnikov interposed once
more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with
fury and delight in insulting him, "is it true that
you told your fiancée... within an hour of her
acceptance, that what pleased you most... was
that she was a beggar... because it was better to
raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have
complete control over her, and reproach her
with your being her benefactor?"
"Upon my word," Luzhin cried wrathfully and
irritably, crimson with confusion, "to distort my
words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to as-
sure you that the report which has reached you,
or rather, let me say, has been conveyed to you,
has no foundation in truth, and I... suspect
who... in a word... this arrow... in a word, your
mamma... She seemed to me in other things,
with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat
high-flown and romantic way of thinking.... But
I was a thousand miles from supposing that she
would misunderstand and misrepresent things
in so fanciful a way.... And indeed... indeed..."
"I tell you what," cried Raskolnikov, raising
himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing,
glittering eyes upon him, "I tell you what."
"What?" Luzhin stood still, waiting with a de-
fiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some
seconds.
"Why, if ever again... you dare to mention a
single word... about my mother... I shall send
you flying downstairs!"
"What's the matter with you?" cried Razumihin.
"So that's how it is?" Luzhin turned pale and bit
his lip. "Let me tell you, sir," he began delibera-
tely, doing his utmost to restrain himself but
breathing hard, "at the first moment I saw you
you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained
here on purpose to find out more. I could for-
give a great deal in a sick man and a connec-
tion, but you... never after this..."
"I am not ill," cried Raskolnikov.
"So much the worse..."
"Go to hell!"
But Luzhin was already leaving without finis-
hing his speech, squeezing between the table
and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let
him pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not
even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some
time been making signs to him to let the sick
man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the
level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he
stooped to go out of the door. And even the
curve of his spine was expressive of the horri-
ble insult he had received.
"How could you—how could you!" Razumihin
said, shaking his head in perplexity.
"Let me alone—let me alone all of you!" Ras-
kolnikov cried in a frenzy. "Will you ever leave
off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am
not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away
from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!"
"Come along," said Zossimov, nodding to Ra-
zumihin.
"But we can't leave him like this!"
"Come along," Zossimov repeated insistently,
and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute
and ran to overtake him.
"It might be worse not to obey him," said Zos-
simov on the stairs. "He mustn't be irritated."
"What's the matter with him?"
"If only he could get some favourable shock,
that's what would do it! At first he was better....
You know he has got something on his mind!
Some fixed idea weighing on him.... I am very
much afraid so; he must have!"
"Perhaps it's that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch.
From his conversation I gather he is going to
marry his sister, and that he had received a
letter about it just before his illness...."
"Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the
case altogether. But have you noticed, he takes
no interest in anything, he does not respond to
anything except one point on which he seems
excited—that's the murder?"
"Yes, yes," Razumihin agreed, "I noticed that,
too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a
shock on the day he was ill in the police office;
he fainted."
"Tell me more about that this evening and I'll
tell you something afterwards. He interests me
very much! In half an hour I'll go and see him
again.... There'll be no inflammation though."
"Thanks! And I'll wait with Pashenka meantime
and will keep watch on him through Nastas-
ya...."
Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience
and misery at Nastasya, but she still lingered.
"Won't you have some tea now?" she asked.
"Later! I am sleepy! Leave me."
He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went
out.
CHAPTER VI
But as soon as she went out, he got up, latched
the door, undid the parcel which Razumihin
had brought in that evening and had tied up
again and began dressing. Strange to say, he
seemed immediately to have become perfectly
calm; not a trace of his recent delirium nor of
the panic fear that had haunted him of late. It
was the first moment of a strange sudden calm.
His movements were precise and definite; a
firm purpose was evident in them. "To-day, to-
day," he muttered to himself. He understood
that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual
concentration gave him strength and self-
confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would
not fall down in the street. When he had dres-
sed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the
money lying on the table, and after a moment's
thought put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five
roubles. He took also all the copper change
from the ten roubles spent by Razumihin on the
clothes. Then he softly unlatched the door,
went out, slipped downstairs and glanced in at
the open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing
with her back to him, blowing up the landla-
dy's samovar. She heard nothing. Who would
have dreamed of his going out, indeed? A mi-
nute later he was in the street.
It was nearly eight o'clock, the sun was setting.
It was as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank
in the stinking, dusty town air. His head felt
rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed
suddenly in his feverish eyes and his wasted,
pale and yellow face. He did not know and did
not think where he was going, he had one
thought only: "that all this must be ended to-
day, once for all, immediately; that he would
not return home without it, because he would
not go on living like that." How, with what to
make an end? He had not an idea about it, he
did not even want to think of it. He drove away
thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all
he felt was that everything must be changed
"one way or another," he repeated with despe-
rate and immovable self-confidence and deter-
mination.
From old habit he took his usual walk in the
direction of the Hay Market. A dark-haired
young man with a barrel organ was standing in
the road in front of a little general shop and
was grinding out a very sentimental song. He
was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood
on the pavement in front of him. She was dres-
sed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat
with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old
and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable
voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing,
she sang in hope of getting a copper from the
shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners,
took out a five copeck piece and put it in the
girl's hand. She broke off abruptly on a senti-
mental high note, shouted sharply to the organ
grinder "Come on," and both moved on to the
next shop.
"Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov,
addressing a middle-aged man standing idly
by him. The man looked at him, startled and
wondering.
"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said
Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely
out of keeping with the subject—"I like it on
cold, dark, damp autumn evenings—they must
be damp—when all the passers-by have pale
green, sickly faces, or better still when wet
snow is falling straight down, when there's no
wind—you know what I mean?—and the street
lampsshine through it..."
"I don't know.... Excuse me..." muttered the
stranger, frightened by the question and Ras-
kolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over
to the other side of the street.
Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out
at the corner of the Hay Market, where the
huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta;
but they were not there now. Recognising the
place, he stopped, looked round and addressed
a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping
before a corn chandler's shop.
"Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his
wife at this corner?"
"All sorts of people keep booths here," answe-
red the young man, glancing superciliously at
Raskolnikov.
"What's his name?"
"What he was christened."
"Aren't you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which pro-
vince?"
The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.
"It's not a province, your excellency, but a dis-
trict. Graciously forgive me, your excellency!"
"Is that a tavern at the top there?"
"Yes, it's an eating-house and there's a billiard-
room and you'll find princesses there too.... La-
la!"
Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner
there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pus-
hed his way into the thickest part of it, looking
at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclina-
tion to enter into conversation with people. But
the peasants took no notice of him; they were
all shouting in groups together. He stood and
thought a little and took a turning to the right
in the direction of V.
He had often crossed that little street which
turns at an angle, leading from the market-
place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt
drawn to wander about this district, when he
felt depressed, that he might feel more so.
Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At
that point there is a great block of buildings,
entirely let out in dram shops and eating-
houses; women were continually running in
and out, bare-headed and in their indoor clot-
hes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on
the pavement, especially about the entrances to
various festive establishments in the lower sto-
reys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of
singing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of
merriment, floated into the street. A crowd of
women were thronging round the door; some
were sitting on the steps, others on the pave-
ment, others were standing talking. A drunken
soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near
them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be
trying to find his way somewhere, but had for-
gotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with
another, and a man dead drunk was lying right
across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng
of women, who were talking in husky voices.
They were bare-headed and wore cotton dres-
ses and goatskin shoes. There were women of
forty and some not more than seventeen; al-
most all had blackened eyes.
He felt strangely attracted by the singing and
all the noise and uproar in the saloon below....
someone could be heard within dancing franti-
cally, marking time with his heels to the sounds
of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice singing
a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and
dreamily, bending down at the entrance and
peeping inquisitively in from the pavement.
"Oh, my handsome soldier Don't beat me for
nothing,"
trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov
felt a great desire to make out what he was sin-
ging, as though everything depended on that.
"Shall I go in?" he thought. "They are laughing.
From drink. Shall I get drunk?"
"Won't you come in?" one of the women asked
him. Her voice was still musical and less thick
than the others, she was young and not repul-
sive—the only one of the group.
"Why, she's pretty," he said, drawing himself
up and looking at her.
She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.
"You're very nice looking yourself," she said.
"Isn't he thin though!" observed another wo-
man in a deep bass. "Have you just come out of
a hospital?"
"They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but
they have all snub noses," interposed a tipsy
peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a
loose coat. "See how jolly they are."
"Go along with you!"
"I'll go, sweetie!"
And he darted down into the saloon below.
Raskolnikov moved on.
"I say, sir," the girl shouted after him.
"What is it?"
She hesitated.
"I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with
you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give
me six copecks for a drink, there's a nice young
man!"
Raskolnikov gave her what came first—fifteen
copecks.
"Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!"
"What's your name?"
"Ask for Duclida."
"Well, that's too much," one of the women ob-
served, shaking her head at Duclida. "I don't
know how you can ask like that. I believe I
should drop with shame...."
Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker.
She was a pock-marked wench of thirty, cove-
red with bruises, with her upper lip swollen.
She made her criticism quietly and earnestly.
"Where is it," thought Raskolnikov. "Where is it
I've read that someone condemned to death
says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if
he had to live on some high rock, on such a
narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and
the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting
solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he
had to remain standing on a square yard of
space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it
were better to live so than to die at once! Only
to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may
be!... How true it is! Good God, how true! Man
is a vile creature!... And vile is he who calls him
vile for that," he added a moment later.
He went into another street. "Bah, the Palais de
Cristal! Razumihin was just talking of the Pa-
lais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wan-
ted? Yes, the newspapers.... Zossimov said he'd
read it in the papers. Have you the papers?" he
asked, going into a very spacious and positive-
ly clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms,
which were, however, rather empty. Two or
three people were drinking tea, and in a room
further away were sitting four men drinking
champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov
was one of them, but he could not be sure at
that distance. "What if it is?" he thought.
"Will you have vodka?" asked the waiter.
"Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the
old ones for the last five days, and I'll give you
something."
"Yes, sir, here's to-day's. No vodka?"
The old newspapers and the tea were brought.
Raskolnikov sat down and began to look
through them.
"Oh, damn... these are the items of intelligence.
An accident on a staircase, spontaneous com-
bustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in
Peski... a fire in the Petersburg quarter... anot-
her fire in the Petersburg quarter... and another
fire in the Petersburg quarter.... Ah, here it is!"
He found at last what he was seeking and be-
gan to read it. The lines danced before his eyes,
but he read it all and began eagerly seeking
later additions in the following numbers. His
hands shook with nervous impatience as he
turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down
beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the
head clerk Zametov, looking just the same,
with the rings on his fingers and the watch-
chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and
pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather
shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a
good humour, at least he was smiling very gai-
ly and good-humouredly. His dark face was
rather flushed from the champagne he had
drunk.
"What, you here?" he began in surprise, spea-
king as though he'd known him all his life.
"Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you
were unconscious. How strange! And do you
know I've been to see you?"
Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him.
He laid aside the papers and turned to Zame-
tov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new
shade of irritable impatience was apparent in
that smile.
"I know you have," he answered. "I've heard it.
You looked for my sock.... And you know Ra-
zumihin has lost his heart to you? Hesays you'-
ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna's—you
know, the woman you tried to befriend, for
whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant
and he would not understand. Do you remem-
ber? How could he fail to understand—it was
quite clear, wasn't it?"
"What a hot head he is!"
"The explosive one?"
"No, your friend Razumihin."
"You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; en-
trance free to the most agreeable places. Who's
been pouring champagne into you just now?"
"We've just been... having a drink together....
You talk about pouring it into me!"
"By way of a fee! You profit by everything!"
Raskolnikov laughed, "it's all right, my dear
boy," he added, slapping Zametov on the
shoulder. "I am not speaking from temper, but
in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of
yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri,
in the case of the old woman...."
"How do you know about it?"
"Perhaps I know more about it than you do."
"How strange you are.... I am sure you are still
very unwell. You oughtn't to have come out."
"Oh, do I seem strange to you?"
"Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?"
"Yes."
"There's a lot about the fires."
"No, I am not reading about the fires." Here he
looked mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were
twisted again in a mocking smile. "No, I am not
reading about the fires," he went on, winking at
Zametov. "But confess now, my dear fellow,
you're awfully anxious to know what I am rea-
ding about?"
"I am not in the least. Mayn't I ask a question?
Why do you keep on...?"
"Listen, you are a man of culture and educa-
tion?"
"I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium," said
Zametov with some dignity.
"Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your
parting and your rings—you are a gentleman of
fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!" Here Ras-
kolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in
Zametov's face. The latter drew back, more
amazed than offended.
"Foo! how strange you are!" Zametov repeated
very seriously. "I can't help thinking you are
still delirious."
"I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-
sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious,
do you?"
"Yes, curious."
"Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what
I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've
made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?"
"Well, what is it?"
"You prick up your ears?"
"How do you mean—'prick up my ears'?"
"I'll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I
declare to you... no, better 'I confess'... No,
that's not right either; 'I make a deposition and
you take it.' I depose that I was reading, that I
was looking and searching...." he screwed up
his eyes and paused. "I was searching—and
came here on purpose to do it—for news of the
murder of the old pawnbroker woman," he
articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing
his face exceedingly close to the face of Zame-
tov. Zametov looked at him steadily, without
moving or drawing his face away. What struck
Zametov afterwards as the strangest part of it
all was that silence followed for exactly a minu-
te, and that they gazed at one another all the
while.
"What if you have been reading about it?" he
cried at last, perplexed and impatient. "That's
no business of mine! What of it?"
"The same old woman," Raskolnikov went on
in the same whisper, not heeding Zametov's
explanation, "about whom you were talking in
the police-office, you remember, when I fain-
ted. Well, do you understand now?"
"What do you mean? Understand... what?" Za-
metov brought out, almost alarmed.
Raskolnikov's set and earnest face was sudden-
ly transformed, and he suddenly went off into
the same nervous laugh as before, as though
utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one
flash he recalled with extraordinary vividness
of sensation a moment in the recent past, that
moment when he stood with the axe behind the
door, while the latch trembled and the men
outside swore and shook it, and he had a sud-
den desire to shout at them, to swear at them,
to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to
laugh, and laugh, and laugh!
"You are either mad, or..." began Zametov, and
he broke off, as though stunned by the idea that
had suddenly flashed into his mind.
"Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!"
"Nothing," said Zametov, getting angry, "it's all
nonsense!"
Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laugh-
ter Raskolnikov became suddenly thoughtful
and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table
and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to
have completely forgotten Zametov. The silen-
ce lasted for some time.
"Why don't you drink your tea? It's getting
cold," said Zametov.
"What! Tea? Oh, yes...." Raskolnikov sipped the
glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth and,
suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to re-
member everything and pulled himself toget-
her. At the same moment his face resumed its
original mocking expression. He went on drin-
king tea.
"There have been a great many of these crimes
lately," said Zametov. "Only the other day I
read in the Moscow News that a whole gang of
false coiners had been caught in Moscow. It
was a regular society. They used to forge tic-
kets!"
"Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a
month ago," Raskolnikov answered calmly. "So
you consider them criminals?" he added, smi-
ling.
"Of course they are criminals."
"They? They are children, simpletons, not cri-
minals! Why, half a hundred people meeting
for such an object—what an idea! Three would
be too many, and then they want to have more
faith in one another than in themselves! One
has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses.
Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy peo-
ple to change the notes—what a thing to trust
to a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that
these simpletons succeed and each makes a
million, and what follows for the rest of their
lives? Each is dependent on the others for the
rest of his life! Better hang oneself at once! And
they did not know how to change the notes
either; the man who changed the notes took
five thousand roubles, and his hands trembled.
He counted the first four thousand, but did not
count the fifth thousand—he was in such a
hurry to get the money into his pocket and run
away. Of course he roused suspicion. And the
whole thing came to a crash through one fool!
Is it possible?"
"That his hands trembled?" observed Zametov,
"yes, that's quite possible. That, I feel quite sure,
is possible. Sometimes one can't stand things."
"Can't stand that?"
"Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn't.
For the sake of a hundred roubles to face such a
terrible experience? To go with false notes into
a bank where it's their business to spot that sort
of thing! No, I should not have the face to do it.
Would you?"
Raskolnikov had an intense desire again "to put
his tongue out." Shivers kept running down his
spine.
"I should do it quite differently," Raskolnikov
began. "This is how I would change the notes:
I'd count the first thousand three or four times
backwards and forwards, looking at every note
and then I'd set to the second thousand; I'd
count that half-way through and then hold so-
me fifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it,
then hold it to the light again—to see whether it
was a good one. 'I am afraid,' I would say, 'a
relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the
other day through a false note,' and then I'd tell
them the whole story. And after I began coun-
ting the third, 'No, excuse me,' I would say, 'I
fancy I made a mistake in the seventh hundred
in that second thousand, I am not sure.' And so
I would give up the third thousand and go back
to the second and so on to the end. And when I
had finished, I'd pick out one from the fifth and
one from the second thousand and take them
again to the light and ask again, 'Change them,
please,' and put the clerk into such a stew that
he would not know how to get rid of me. When
I'd finished and had gone out, I'd come back,
'No, excuse me,' and ask for some explanation.
That's how I'd do it."
"Foo! what terrible things yousay!" said Zame-
tov, laughing. "But all that is only talk. I dare
say when it came to deeds you'd make a slip. I
believe that even a practised, desperate man
cannot always reckon on himself, much less
you and I. To take an example near home—that
old woman murdered in our district. The mur-
derer seems to have been a desperate fellow, he
risked everything in open daylight, was saved
by a miracle—but his hands shook, too. He did
not succeed in robbing the place, he couldn't
stand it. That was clear from the..."
Raskolnikov seemed offended.
"Clear? Why don't you catch him then?" he
cried, maliciously gibing at Zametov.
"Well, they will catch him."
"Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch
him? You've a tough job! A great point for you
is whether a man is spending money or not. If
he had no money and suddenly begins spen-
ding, he must be the man. So that any child can
mislead you."
"The fact is they always do that, though," ans-
wered Zametov. "A man will commit a clever
murder at the risk of his life and then at once he
goes drinking in a tavern. They are caught
spending money, they are not all as cunning as
you are. You wouldn't go to a tavern, of cour-
se?"
Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at
Zametov.
"You seem to enjoy the subject and would like
to know how I should behave in that case, too?"
he asked with displeasure.
"I should like to," Zametov answered firmly
and seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness
began to appear in his words and looks.
"Very much?"
"Very much!"
"All right then. This is how I should behave,"
Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face clo-
se to Zametov's, again staring at him and spea-
king in a whisper, so that the latter positively
shuddered. "This is what I should have done. I
should have taken the money and jewels, I
should have walked out of there and have gone
straight to some deserted place with fences
round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some
kitchen garden or place of that sort. I should
have looked out beforehand some stone weig-
hing a hundredweight or more which had been
lying in the corner from the time the house was
built. I would lift that stone—there would sure
to be a hollow under it, and I would put the
jewels and money in that hole. Then I'd roll the
stone back so that it would look as before,
would press it down with my foot and walk
away. And for a year or two, three maybe, I
would not touch it. And, well, they could
search! There'd be no trace."
"You are a madman," said Zametov, and for
some reason he too spoke in a whisper, and
moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes
were glittering. He had turned fearfully pale
and his upper lip was twitching and quivering.
He bent down as close as possible to Zametov,
and his lips began to move without uttering a
word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew
what he was doing, but could not restrain him-
self. The terrible word trembled on his lips, like
the latch on that door; in another moment it
will break out, in another moment he will let it
go, he will speak out.
"And what if it was I who murdered the old
woman and Lizaveta?" he said suddenly and—
realised what he had done.
Zametov looked wildly at him and turned whi-
te as the tablecloth. His face wore a contorted
smile.
"But is it possible?" he brought out faintly. Ras-
kolnikov looked wrathfully at him.
"Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?"
"Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now,"
Zametov cried hastily.
"I've caught my cock-sparrow! So you did be-
lieve it before, if now you believe less than
ever?"
"Not at all," cried Zametov, obviously emba-
rrassed. "Have you been frightening me so as to
lead up to this?"
"You don't believe it then? What were you tal-
king about behind my back when I went out of
the police-office? And why did the explosive
lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey,
there," he shouted to the waiter, getting up and
taking his cap, "how much?"
"Thirty copecks," the latter replied, running up.
"And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See
what a lot of money!" he held out his shaking
hand to Zametov with notes in it. "Red notes
and blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get
them? And where did my new clothes come
from? You know I had not a copeck. You've
cross-examined my landlady, I'll be bound....
Well, that's enough! Assez causé! Till we meet
again!"
He went out, trembling all over from a sort of
wild hysterical sensation, in which there was an
element of insufferable rapture. Yet he was
gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted
as after a fit. His fatigue increased rapidly. Any
shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and
revived his energies at once, but his strength
failed as quickly when the stimulus was remo-
ved.
Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the
same place, plunged in thought. Raskolnikov
had unwittingly worked a revolution in his
brain on a certain point and had made up his
mind for him conclusively.
"Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead," he decided.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the
restaurant when he stumbled against Razu-
mihin on the steps. They did not see each other
till they almost knocked against each other. For
a moment they stood looking each other up
and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded,
then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his
eyes.
"So here you are!" he shouted at the top of his
voice—"you ran away from your bed! And here
I've been looking for you under the sofa! We
went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya
on your account. And here he is after all. Rod-
ya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the who-
le truth! Confess! Do you hear?"
"It means that I'm sick to death of you all and I
want to be alone," Raskolnikov answered calm-
ly.
"Alone? When you are not able to walk, when
your face is as white as a sheet and you are gas-
ping for breath! Idiot!... What have you been
doing in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!"
"Let me go!" said Raskolnikov and tried to pass
him. This was too much for Razumihin; he
gripped him firmly by the shoulder.
"Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do
you know what I'll do with you directly? I'll
pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you
home under my arm and lock you up!"
"Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov began quie-
tly, apparently calm—"can't you see that I don't
want your benevolence? A strange desire you
have to shower benefits on a man who... curses
them, who feels them a burden in fact! Why did
you seek me out at the beginning of my illness?
Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn't I tell you
plainly enough to-day that you were torturing
me, that I was... sick of you! You seem to want
to torture people! I assure you that all that is
seriously hindering my recovery, because it's
continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov
went away just now to avoid irritating me. You
leave me alone too, for goodness' sake! What
right have you, indeed, to keep me by force?
Don't you see that I am in possession of all my
faculties now? How, how can I persuade you
not to persecute me with your kindness? I may
be ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be,
for God's sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!"
He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the
venomous phrases he was about to utter, but
finished, panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he
had been with Luzhin.
Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his
hand drop.
"Well, go to hell then," he said gently and
thoughtfully. "Stay," he roared, as Raskolnikov
was about to move. "Listen to me. Let me tell
you, that you are all a set of babbling, posing
idiots! If you've any little trouble you brood
over it like a hen over an egg. And you are pla-
giarists even in that! There isn't a sign of inde-
pendent life in you! You are made of spermace-
ti ointment and you've lymph in your veins
instead of blood. I don't believe in anyone of
you! In any circumstances the first thing for all
of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!" he
criedwith redoubled fury, noticing that Ras-
kolnikov was again making a movement—
"hear me out! You know I'm having a house-
warming this evening, I dare say they've arri-
ved by now, but I left my uncle there—I just
ran in—to receive the guests. And if you we-
ren't a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you
were an original instead of a translation... you
see, Rodya, I recognise you're a clever fellow,
but you're a fool!—and if you weren't a fool
you'd come round to me this evening instead of
wearing out your boots in the street! Since you
have gone out, there's no help for it! I'd give
you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one... a
cup of tea, company.... Or you could lie on the
sofa—any way you would be with us.... Zossi-
mov will be there too. Will you come?"
"No."
"R-rubbish!" Razumihin shouted, out of patien-
ce. "How do you know? You can't answer for
yourself! You don't know anything about it....
Thousands of times I've fought tooth and nail
with people and run back to them afterwards....
One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So
remember, Potchinkov's house on the third
storey...."
"Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you'd let
anybody beat you from sheer benevolence."
"Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist his nose off at the
mere idea! Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's
flat...."
"I shall not come, Razumihin." Raskolnikov
turned and walked away.
"I bet you will," Razumihin shouted after him.
"I refuse to know you if you don't! Stay, hey, is
Zametov in there?"
"Yes."
"Did you see him?"
"Yes."
"Talked to him?"
"Yes."
"What about? Confound you, don't tell me
then. Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat,
remember!"
Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner
into Sadovy Street. Razumihin looked after him
thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he
went into the house but stopped short of the
stairs.
"Confound it," he went on almost aloud. "He
talked sensibly but yet... I am a fool! As if
madmen didn't talk sensibly! And this was just
what Zossimov seemed afraid of." He struck his
finger on his forehead. "What if... how could I
let him go off alone? He may drown himself....
Ach, what a blunder! I can't." And he ran back
to overtake Raskolnikov, but there was no trace
of him. With a curse he returned with rapid
steps to the Palais de Cristal to question Zame-
tov.
Raskolnikov walked straight to X—— Bridge,
stood in the middle, and leaning both elbows
on the rail stared into the distance. On parting
with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that
he could scarcely reach this place. He longed to
sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Ben-
ding over the water, he gazed mechanically at
the last pink flush of the sunset, at the row of
houses growing dark in the gathering twilight,
at one distant attic window on the left bank,
flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the
setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal,
and the water seemed to catch his attention. At
last red circles flashed before his eyes, the hou-
ses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal
banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes.
Suddenly he started, saved again perhaps from
swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He
became aware of someone standing on the right
side of him; he looked and saw a tall woman
with a kerchief on her head, with a long, ye-
llow, wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was
looking straight at him, but obviously she saw
nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly she
leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her
right leg over the railing, then her left and
threw herself into the canal. The filthy water
parted and swallowed up its victim for a mo-
ment, but an instant later the drowning woman
floated to the surface, moving slowly with the
current, her head and legs in the water, her
skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.
"A woman drowning! A woman drowning!"
shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both
banks were thronged with spectators, on the
bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov,
pressing up behind him.
"Mercy on it! it's our Afrosinya!" a woman cried
tearfully close by. "Mercy! save her! kind peo-
ple, pull her out!"
"A boat, a boat" was shouted in the crowd. But
there was no need of a boat; a policeman ran
down the steps to the canal, threw off his great
coat and his boots and rushed into the water. It
was easy to reach her: she floated within a cou-
ple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of
her clothes with his right hand and with his left
seized a pole which a comrade held out to him;
the drowning woman was pulled out at once.
They laid her on the granite pavement of the
embankment. She soon recovered conscious-
ness, raised her head, sat up and began snee-
zing and coughing, stupidly wiping her wet
dress with her hands. She said nothing.
"She's drunk herself out of her senses," the sa-
me woman's voice wailed at her side. "Out of
her senses. The other day she tried to hang her-
self, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just
now, left my little girl to look after her—and
here she's in trouble again! A neighbour, gen-
tleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the se-
cond house from the end, see yonder...."
The crowd broke up. The police still remained
round the woman, someone mentioned the
police station.... Raskolnikov looked on with a
strange sensation of indifference and apathy.
He felt disgusted. "No, that's loathsome... wa-
ter... it's not good enough," he muttered to him-
self. "Nothing will come of it," he added, "no
use to wait. What about the police office...? And
why isn't Zametov at the police office? The po-
lice office is open till ten o'clock...." He turned
his back to the railing and looked about him.
"Very well then!" he said resolutely; he moved
from the bridge and walked in the direction of
the police office. His heart felt hollow and emp-
ty. He did not want to think. Even his depres-
sion had passed, there was not a trace now of
the energy with which he had set out "to make
an end of it all." Complete apathy had succee-
ded to it.
"Well, it's a way out of it," he thought, walking
slowly and listlessly along the canal bank.
"Anyway I'll make an end, for I want to.... But
is it a way out? What does it matter! There'll be
the square yard of space—ha! But what an end!
Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not?
Ah... damn! How tired I am! If I could find so-
mewhere to sit or lie down soon! What I am
most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I
don't care about that either! What idiotic ideas
come into one's head."
To reach the police office he had to go straight
forward and take the second turning to the left.
It was only a few paces away. But at the first
turning he stopped and, after a minute's
thought, turned into a side street and went two
streets out of his way, possibly without any
object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain
time. He walked, looking at the ground; sud-
denly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he
lifted his head and saw that he was standing at
the very gate of the house. He had not passed it,
he had not been near it since that evening. An
overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew
him on. He went into the house, passed
through the gateway, then into the first entran-
ce on the right, and began mounting the fami-
liar staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow,
steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at
each landing and looked round him with curio-
sity; on the first landing the framework of the
window had been taken out. "That wasn't so
then," he thought. Here was the flat on the se-
cond storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had
been working. "It's shut up and the door newly
painted. So it's to let." Then the third storey and
the fourth. "Here!" He was perplexed to find
the door of the flat wide open. There were men
there, he could hear voices; he had not expected
that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last
stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being
done up; there were workmen in it. This see-
med toamaze him; he somehow fancied that he
would find everything as he left it, even per-
haps the corpses in the same places on the
floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it
seemed strange. He walked to the window and
sat down on the window-sill. There were two
workmen, both young fellows, but one much
younger than the other. They were papering
the walls with a new white paper covered with
lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow
one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly
annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper
with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it
all so changed. The workmen had obviously
stayed beyond their time and now they were
hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting
ready to go home. They took no notice of Ras-
kolnikov's coming in; they were talking. Ras-
kolnikov folded his arms and listened.
"She comes to me in the morning," said the el-
der to the younger, "very early, all dressed up.
'Why are you preening and prinking?' says I. 'I
am ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vas-
silitch!' That's a way of going on! And she dres-
sed up like a regular fashion book!"
"And what is a fashion book?" the younger one
asked. He obviously regarded the other as an
authority.
"A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured,
and they come to the tailors here every Satur-
day, by post from abroad, to show folks how to
dress, the male sex as well as the female. They'-
re pictures. The gentlemen are generally wea-
ring fur coats and for the ladies' fluffles, they're
beyond anything you can fancy."
"There's nothing you can't find in Petersburg,"
the younger cried enthusiastically, "except fat-
her and mother, there's everything!"
"Except them, there's everything to be found,
my boy," the elder declared sententiously.
Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other
room where the strong box, the bed, and the
chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to
him very tiny without furniture in it. The paper
was the same; the paper in the corner showed
where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at
it and went to the window. The elder workman
looked at him askance.
"What do you want?" he asked suddenly.
Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the
passage and pulled the bell. The same bell, the
same cracked note. He rang it a second and a
third time; he listened and remembered. The
hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation he
had felt then began to come back more and
more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and
it gave him more and more satisfaction.
"Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the
workman shouted, going out to him. Raskolni-
kov went inside again.
"I want to take a flat," he said. "I am looking
round."
"It's not the time to look at rooms at night! and
you ought to come up with the porter."
"The floors have been washed, will they be
painted?" Raskolnikov went on. "Is there no
blood?"
"What blood?"
"Why, the old woman and her sister were mur-
dered here. There was a perfect pool there."
"But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy.
"Who am I?"
"Yes."
"You want to know? Come to the police station,
I'll tell you."
The workmen looked at him in amazement.
"It's time for us to go, we are late. Come along,
Alyoshka. We must lock up," said the elder
workman.
"Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov in-
differently, and going out first, he went slowly
downstairs. "Hey, porter," he cried in the gate-
way.
At the entrance several people were standing,
staring at the passers-by; the two porters, a pea-
sant woman, a man in a long coat and a few
others. Raskolnikov went straight up to them.
"What do you want?" asked one of the porters.
"Have you been to the police office?"
"I've just been there. What do you want?"
"Is it open?"
"Of course."
"Is the assistant there?"
"He was there for a time. What do you want?"
Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside
them lost in thought.
"He's been to look at the flat," said the elder
workman, coming forward.
"Which flat?"
"Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed
away the blood?' says he. 'There has been a
murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to take it.'
And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke
it. 'Come to the police station,' says he. 'I'll tell
you everything there.' He wouldn't leave us."
The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning
and perplexed.
"Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as
he could.
"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, for-
merly a student, I live in Shil's house, not far
from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he
knows me." Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy,
dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking
intently into the darkening street.
"Why have you been to the flat?"
"To look at it."
"What is there to look at?"
"Take him straight to the police station," the
man in the long coat jerked in abruptly.
Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his
shoulder and said in the same slow, lazy tones:
"Come along."
"Yes, take him," the man went on more confi-
dently. "Why was he going into that, what's in
his mind, eh?"
"He's not drunk, but God knows what's the
matter with him," muttered the workman.
"But what do you want?" the porter shouted
again, beginning to get angry in earnest—"Why
are you hanging about?"
"You funk the police station then?" said Ras-
kolnikov jeeringly.
"How funk it? Why are you hanging about?"
"He's a rogue!" shouted the peasant woman.
"Why waste time talking to him?" cried the ot-
her porter, a huge peasant in a full open coat
and with keys on his belt. "Get along! He is a
rogue and no mistake. Get along!"
And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he
flung him into the street. He lurched forward,
but recovered his footing, looked at the specta-
tors in silence and walked away.
"Strange man!" observed the workman.
"There are strange folks about nowadays," said
the woman.
"You should have taken him to the police sta-
tion all the same," said the man in the long coat.
"Better have nothing to do with him," decided
the big porter. "A regular rogue! Just what he
wants, you may be sure, but once take him up,
you won't get rid of him.... We know the sort!"
"Shall I go there or not?" thought Raskolnikov,
standing in the middle of the thoroughfare at
the cross-roads, and he looked about him, as
though expecting from someone a decisive
word. But no sound came, all was dead and
silent like the stones on which he walked, dead
to him, to him alone.... All at once at the end of
the street, two hundred yards away, in the gat-
hering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and
shouts. In the middle of the crowd stood a ca-
rriage.... A light gleamed in the middle of the
street. "What is it?" Raskolnikov turned to the
right and went up to the crowd. He seemed to
clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he
recognised it, for he had fully made up his
mind to go to the police station and knew that
it would all soon be over.
CHAPTER VII
An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the
road with a pair of spirited grey horses; there
was no one in it, and the coachman had got off
his box and stood by; the horses were being
held by the bridle.... A mass of people had gat-
hered round, the police standing in front. One
of them held a lighted lantern which he was
turning on something lying close to the wheels.
Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming;
the coachman seemed at a loss and kept repea-
ting:
"What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfor-
tune!"
Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he
could, and succeeded at last in seeing the object
of the commotion and interest. On the ground a
man who had been run over lay apparently
unconscious, and covered with blood; he was
very badly dressed, but not like a workman.
Blood was flowing from his head and face; his
face was crushed, mutilated and disfigured. He
was evidently badly injured.
"Merciful heaven!" wailed the coachman, "what
more could I do? If I'd been driving fast or had
not shouted to him, but I was going quietly, not
in a hurry.Everyone could see I was going
along just like everybody else. A drunken man
can't walk straight, we all know.... I saw him
crossing the street, staggering and almost fa-
lling. I shouted again and a second and a third
time, then I held the horses in, but he fell
straight under their feet! Either he did it on
purpose or he was very tipsy.... The horses are
young and ready to take fright... they started,
he screamed... that made them worse. That's
how it happened!"
"That's just how it was," a voice in the crowd
confirmed.
"He shouted, that's true, he shouted three ti-
mes," another voice declared.
"Three times it was, we all heard it," shouted a
third.
But the coachman was not very much distres-
sed and frightened. It was evident that the ca-
rriage belonged to a rich and important person
who was awaiting it somewhere; the police, of
course, were in no little anxiety to avoid upset-
ting his arrangements. All they had to do was
to take the injured man to the police station and
the hospital. No one knew his name.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and
stooped closer over him. The lantern suddenly
lighted up the unfortunate man's face. He re-
cognised him.
"I know him! I know him!" he shouted, pushing
to the front. "It's a government clerk retired
from the service, Marmeladov. He lives close
by in Kozel's house.... Make haste for a doctor! I
will pay, see?" He pulled money out of his poc-
ket and showed it to the policeman. He was in
violent agitation.
The police were glad that they had found out
who the man was. Raskolnikov gave his own
name and address, and, as earnestly as if it had
been his father, he besought the police to carry
the unconscious Marmeladov to his lodging at
once.
"Just here, three houses away," he said eagerly,
"the house belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He
was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him,
he is a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife,
children, he has one daughter.... It will take
time to take him to the hospital, and there is
sure to be a doctor in the house. I'll pay, I'll pay!
At least he will be looked after at home... they
will help him at once. But he'll die before you
get him to the hospital." He managed to slip
something unseen into the policeman's hand.
But the thing was straightforward and legitima-
te, and in any case help was closer here. They
raised the injured man; people volunteered to
help.
Kozel's house was thirty yards away. Raskolni-
kov walked behind, carefully holding Marme-
ladov's head and showing the way.
"This way, this way! We must take him upstairs
head foremost. Turn round! I'll pay, I'll make it
worth your while," he muttered.
Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she al-
ways did at every free moment, walking to and
fro in her little room from window to stove and
back again, with her arms folded across her
chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late
she had begun to talk more than ever to her
eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though
there was much she did not understand, un-
derstood very well that her mother needed her,
and so always watched her with her big clever
eyes and strove her utmost to appear to unders-
tand. This time Polenka was undressing her
little brother, who had been unwell all day and
was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her
to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at
night. He was sitting straight and motionless
on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his
legs stretched out straight before him—heels
together and toes turned out.
He was listening to what his mother was saying
to his sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting
lips and wide-open eyes, just as all good little
boys have to sit when they are undressed to go
to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed litera-
lly in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her
turn. The door on to the stairs was open to re-
lieve them a little from the clouds of tobacco
smoke which floated in from the other rooms
and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in
the poor, consumptive woman. Katerina Iva-
novna seemed to have grown even thinner du-
ring that week and the hectic flush on her face
was brighter than ever.
"You wouldn't believe, you can't imagine, Po-
lenka," she said, walking about the room, "what
a happy luxurious life we had in my papa's
house and how this drunkard has brought me,
and will bring you all, to ruin! Papa was a civil
colonel and only a step from being a governor;
so that everyone who came to see him said, 'We
look upon you, Ivan Mihailovitch, as our go-
vernor!' When I... when..." she coughed violen-
tly, "oh, cursed life," she cried, clearing her
throat and pressing her hands to her breast,
"when I... when at the last ball... at the mars-
hal's... Princess Bezzemelny saw me—who ga-
ve me the blessing when your father and I were
married, Polenka—she asked at once 'Isn't that
the pretty girl who danced the shawl dance at
the breaking-up?' (You must mend that tear,
you must take your needle and darn it as I
showed you, or to-morrow—cough, cough,
cough—he will make the hole bigger," she arti-
culated with effort.) "Prince Schegolskoy, a
kammerjunker, had just come from Petersburg
then... he danced the mazurka with me and
wanted to make me an offer next day; but I
thanked him in flattering expressions and told
him that my heart had long been another's.
That other was your father, Polya; papa was
fearfully angry.... Is the water ready? Give me
the shirt, and the stockings! Lida," said she to
the youngest one, "you must manage without
your chemise to-night... and lay your stockings
out with it... I'll wash them together.... How is it
that drunken vagabond doesn't come in? He
has worn his shirt till it looks like a dish-clout,
he has torn it to rags! I'd do it all together, so as
not to have to work two nights running! Oh,
dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again!
What's this?" she cried, noticing a crowd in the
passage and the men, who were pushing into
her room, carrying a burden. "What is it? What
are they bringing? Mercy on us!"
"Where are we to put him?" asked the police-
man, looking round when Marmeladov, un-
conscious and covered with blood, had been
carried in.
"On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with
his head this way," Raskolnikov showed him.
"Run over in the road! Drunk!" someone shou-
ted in the passage.
Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and
gasping for breath. The children were terrified.
Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka and
clutched at her, trembling all over.
Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov
flew to Katerina Ivanovna.
"For God's sake be calm, don't be frightened!"
he said, speaking quickly, "he was crossing the
road and was run over by a carriage, don't be
frightened, he will come to, I told them bring
him here... I've been here already, you remem-
ber? He will come to; I'll pay!"
"He's done it this time!" Katerina Ivanovna
cried despairingly and she rushed to her hus-
band.
Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not
one of those women who swoon easily. She
instantly placed under the luckless man's head
a pillow, which no one had thought of and be-
gan undressing and examining him. She kept
her head, forgetting herself, biting her trem-
bling lips and stifling the screams which were
ready to break from her.
Raskolnikov meanwhile induced someone to
run for a doctor. There was a doctor, it appea-
red, next door but one.
"I've sent for a doctor," he kept assuring Kateri-
na Ivanovna, "don't be uneasy, I'll pay. Haven't
you water?... and give me a napkin or a towel,
anything, as quick as you can.... He is injured,
but not killed, believe me.... We shall see what
the doctor says!"
Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on
a broken chair in the corner, a large earthenwa-
re basin full of water had been stood, in readi-
ness for washing her children's and husband's
linen that night. This washing was done by
Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a
week, if not oftener. For the family hadcome to
such a pass that they were practically without
change of linen, and Katerina Ivanovna could
not endure uncleanliness and, rather than see
dirt in the house, she preferred to wear herself
out at night, working beyond her strength
when the rest were asleep, so as to get the wet
linen hung on a line and dry by the morning.
She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov's
request, but almost fell down with her burden.
But the latter had already succeeded in finding
a towel, wetted it and began washing the blood
off Marmeladov's face.
Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfu-
lly and pressing her hands to her breast. She
was in need of attention herself. Raskolnikov
began to realise that he might have made a mis-
take in having the injured man brought here.
The policeman, too, stood in hesitation.
"Polenka," cried Katerina Ivanovna, "run to
Sonia, make haste. If you don't find her at
home, leave word that her father has been run
over and that she is to come here at once...
when she comes in. Run, Polenka! there, put on
the shawl."
"Run your fastest!" cried the little boy on the
chair suddenly, after which he relapsed into the
same dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his heels
thrust forward and his toes spread out.
Meanwhile the room had become so full of
people that you couldn't have dropped a pin.
The policemen left, all except one, who remai-
ned for a time, trying to drive out the people
who came in from the stairs. Almost all Mada-
me Lippevechsel's lodgers had streamed in
from the inner rooms of the flat; at first they
were squeezed together in the doorway, but
afterwards they overflowed into the room. Ka-
terina Ivanovna flew into a fury.
"You might let him die in peace, at least," she
shouted at the crowd, "is it a spectacle for you
to gape at? With cigarettes! (Cough, cough,
cough!) You might as well keep your hats on....
And there is one in his hat!... Get away! You
should respect the dead, at least!"
Her cough choked her—but her reproaches
were not without result. They evidently stood
in some awe of Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers,
one after another, squeezed back into the door-
way with that strange inner feeling of satisfac-
tion which may be observed in the presence of
a sudden accident, even in those nearest and
dearest to the victim, from which no living man
is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest sym-
pathy and compassion.
Voices outside were heard, however, speaking
of the hospital and saying that they'd no busi-
ness to make a disturbance here.
"No business to die!" cried Katerina Ivanovna,
and she was rushing to the door to vent her
wrath upon them, but in the doorway came
face to face with Madame Lippevechsel who
had only just heard of the accident and ran in to
restore order. She was a particularly quarrel-
some and irresponsible German.
"Ah, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands,
"your husband drunken horses have trampled!
To the hospital with him! I am the landlady!"
"Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect
what you are saying," Katerina Ivanovna began
haughtily (she always took a haughty tone with
the landlady that she might "remember her
place" and even now could not deny herself
this satisfaction). "Amalia Ludwigovna..."
"I have you once before told that you to call me
Amalia Ludwigovna may not dare; I am Ama-
lia Ivanovna."
"You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia
Ludwigovna, and as I am not one of your des-
picable flatterers like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who's
laughing behind the door at this moment (a
laugh and a cry of 'they are at it again' was in
fact audible at the door) so I shall always call
you Amalia Ludwigovna, though I fail to un-
derstand why you dislike that name. You can
see for yourself what has happened to Semyon
Zaharovitch; he is dying. I beg you to close that
door at once and to admit no one. Let him at
least die in peace! Or I warn you the Governor-
General, himself, shall be informed of your
conduct to-morrow. The prince knew me as a
girl; he remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well
and has often been a benefactor to him. Ever-
yone knows that Semyon Zaharovitch had ma-
ny friends and protectors, whom he abandoned
himself from an honourable pride, knowing his
unhappy weakness, but now (she pointed to
Raskolnikov) a generous young man has come
to our assistance, who has wealth and connec-
tions and whom Semyon Zaharovitch has
known from a child. You may rest assured,
Amalia Ludwigovna..."
All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, get-
ting quicker and quicker, but a cough suddenly
cut short Katerina Ivanovna's eloquence. At
that instant the dying man recovered cons-
ciousness and uttered a groan; she ran to him.
The injured man opened his eyes and without
recognition or understanding gazed at Raskol-
nikov who was bending over him. He drew
deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the
corners of his mouth and drops of perspiration
came out on his forehead. Not recognising Ras-
kolnikov, he began looking round uneasily.
Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but
stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes.
"My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he
is bleeding," she said in despair. "We must take
off his clothes. Turn a little, Semyon Zaharo-
vitch, if you can," she cried to him.
Marmeladov recognised her.
"A priest," he articulated huskily.
Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid
her head against the window frame and ex-
claimed in despair:
"Oh, cursed life!"
"A priest," the dying man said again after a
moment's silence.
"They've gone for him," Katerina Ivanovna
shouted to him, he obeyed her shout and was
silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for
her; she returned and stood by his pillow. He
seemed a little easier but not for long.
Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favourite,
who was shaking in the corner, as though she
were in a fit, and staring at him with her won-
dering childish eyes.
"A-ah," he signed towards her uneasily. He
wanted to say something.
"What now?" cried Katerina Ivanovna.
"Barefoot, barefoot!" he muttered, indicating
with frenzied eyes the child's bare feet.
"Be silent," Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably,
"you know why she is barefooted."
"Thank God, the doctor," exclaimed Raskolni-
kov, relieved.
The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a
German, looking about him mistrustfully; he
went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefu-
lly felt his head and with the help of Katerina
Ivanovna he unbuttoned the blood-stained
shirt, and bared the injured man's chest. It was
gashed, crushed and fractured, several ribs on
the right side were broken. On the left side, just
over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking
yellowish-black bruise—a cruel kick from the
horse's hoof. The doctor frowned. The police-
man told him that he was caught in the wheel
and turned round with it for thirty yards on the
road.
"It's wonderful that he has recovered cons-
ciousness," the doctor whispered softly to Ras-
kolnikov.
"What do you think of him?" he asked.
"He will die immediately."
"Is there really no hope?"
"Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp.... His
head is badly injured, too... Hm... I could bleed
him if you like, but... it would be useless. He is
bound to die within the next five or ten minu-
tes."
"Better bleed him then."
"If you like.... But I warn you it will be perfectly
useless."
At that moment other steps were heard; the
crowd in the passage parted, and the priest, a
little, grey old man, appeared in the doorway
bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone
for him at the time of the accident. The doctor
changed places with him, exchanging glances
with him. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to
remain a little while. He shrugged his shoul-
ders and remained.
All stepped back. The confession was soon
over. The dying man probably understood lit-
tle; he could only utter indistinct broken
sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, lif-
ted the boy from the chair, knelt down in the
corner by the stove andmade the children
kneel in front of her. The little girl was still
trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his little
bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, cros-
sing himself with precision and bowed down,
touching the floor with his forehead, which
seemed to afford him especial satisfaction. Ka-
terina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back her
tears; she prayed, too, now and then pulling
straight the boy's shirt, and managed to cover
the girl's bare shoulders with a kerchief, which
she took from the chest without rising from her
knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile the door
from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively
again. In the passage the crowd of spectators
from all the flats on the staircase grew denser
and denser, but they did not venture beyond
the threshold. A single candle-end lighted up
the scene.
At that moment Polenka forced her way
through the crowd at the door. She came in
panting from running so fast, took off her ker-
chief, looked for her mother, went up to her
and said, "She's coming, I met her in the street."
Her mother made her kneel beside her.
Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her
way through the crowd, and strange was her
appearance in that room, in the midst of want,
rags, death and despair. She, too, was in rags,
her attire was all of the cheapest, but decked
out in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmis-
takably betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia
stopped short in the doorway and looked about
her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She
forgot her fourth-hand, gaudy silk dress, so
unseemly here with its ridiculous long train,
and her immense crinoline that filled up the
whole doorway, and her light-coloured shoes,
and the parasol she brought with her, though it
was no use at night, and the absurd round
straw hat with its flaring flame-coloured feat-
her. Under this rakishly-tilted hat was a pale,
frightened little face with lips parted and eyes
staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of
eighteen with fair hair, rather pretty, with
wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the
bed and the priest; she too was out of breath
with running. At last whispers, some words in
the crowd probably, reached her. She looked
down and took a step forward into the room,
still keeping close to the door.
The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went
up to her husband again. The priest stepped
back and turned to say a few words of admoni-
tion and consolation to Katerina Ivanovna on
leaving.
"What am I to do with these?" she interrupted
sharply and irritably, pointing to the little ones.
"God is merciful; look to the Most High for suc-
cour," the priest began.
"Ach! He is merciful, but not to us."
"That's a sin, a sin, madam," observed the
priest, shaking his head.
"And isn't that a sin?" cried Katerina Ivanovna,
pointing to the dying man.
"Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused
the accident will agree to compensate you, at
least for the loss of his earnings."
"You don't understand!" cried Katerina Ivanov-
na angrily waving her hand. "And why should
they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and
threw himself under the horses! What ear-
nings? He brought us in nothing but misery.
He drank everything away, the drunkard! He
robbed us to get drink, he wasted their lives
and mine for drink! And thank God he's dying!
One less to keep!"
"You must forgive in the hour of death, that's a
sin, madam, such feelings are a great sin."
Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying
man; she was giving him water, wiping the
blood and sweat from his head, setting his pi-
llow straight, and had only turned now and
then for a moment to address the priest. Now
she flew at him almost in a frenzy.
"Ah, father! That's words and only words! For-
give! If he'd not been run over, he'd have come
home to-day drunk and his only shirt dirty and
in rags and he'd have fallen asleep like a log,
and I should have been sousing and rinsing till
daybreak, washing his rags and the children's
and then drying them by the window and as
soon as it was daylight I should have been dar-
ning them. That's how I spend my nights!...
What's the use of talking of forgiveness! I have
forgiven as it is!"
A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words.
She put her handkerchief to her lips and sho-
wed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to
her aching chest. The handkerchief was cove-
red with blood. The priest bowed his head and
said nothing.
Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not
take his eyes off the face of Katerina Ivanovna,
who was bending over him again. He kept
trying to say something to her; he began mo-
ving his tongue with difficulty and articulating
indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understan-
ding that he wanted to ask her forgiveness,
called peremptorily to him:
"Be silent! No need! I know what you want to
say!" And the sick man was silent, but at the
same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the
doorway and he saw Sonia.
Till then he had not noticed her: she was stan-
ding in the shadow in a corner.
"Who's that? Who's that?" he said suddenly in a
thick gasping voice, in agitation, turning his
eyes in horror towards the door where his
daughter was standing, and trying to sit up.
"Lie down! Lie do-own!" cried Katerina Iva-
novna.
With unnatural strength he had succeeded in
propping himself on his elbow. He looked
wildly and fixedly for some time on his daugh-
ter, as though not recognising her. He had ne-
ver seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he
recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her
humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting
her turn to say good-bye to her dying father.
His face showed intense suffering.
"Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!" he cried, and he
tried to hold out his hand to her, but losing his
balance, he fell off the sofa, face downwards on
the floor. They rushed to pick him up, they put
him on the sofa; but he was dying. Sonia with a
faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained
so without moving. He died in her arms.
"He's got what he wanted," Katerina Ivanovna
cried, seeing her husband's dead body. "Well,
what's to be done now? How am I to bury him!
What can I give them to-morrow to eat?"
Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna.
"Katerina Ivanovna," he began, "last week your
husband told me all his life and circumstan-
ces.... Believe me, he spoke of you with passio-
nate reverence. From that evening, when I
learnt how devoted he was to you all and how
he loved and respected you especially, Katerina
Ivanovna, in spite of his unfortunate weakness,
from that evening we became friends.... Allow
me now... to do something... to repay my debt
to my dead friend. Here are twenty roubles, I
think—and if that can be of any assistance to
you, then... I... in short, I will come again, I will
be sure to come again... I shall, perhaps, come
again to-morrow.... Good-bye!"
And he went quickly out of the room, squee-
zing his way through the crowd to the stairs.
But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against
Nikodim Fomitch, who had heard of the acci-
dent and had come to give instructions in per-
son. They had not met since the scene at the
police station, but Nikodim Fomitch knew him
instantly.
"Ah, is that you?" he asked him.
"He's dead," answered Raskolnikov. "The doc-
tor and the priest have been, all as it should
have been. Don't worry the poor woman too
much, she is in consumption as it is. Try and
cheer her up, if possible... you are a kind-
hearted man, I know..." he added with a smile,
looking straight in his face.
"But you are spattered with blood," observed
Nikodim Fomitch, noticing in the lamplight
some fresh stains on Raskolnikov's waistcoat.
"Yes... I'm covered with blood," Raskolnikov
said with a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded
and went downstairs.
He walked down slowly and deliberately, feve-
rish but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in
a new overwhelming sensation of life and
strength that surged up suddenly within him.
This sensation might be compared to that